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OLIVIA  FOUND. 


178 


THE 

VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD : 

X  Mnhf 

BY 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  M.B. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER  &  COATES. 


CHARACTERISTICS 


OF 


GOLDSMITH'S  WRITINGS. 


The  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  has  long  been  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  interesting  tales  in  our 
language.  It  is  seldom  that  a  story  presenting 
merely  a  picture  of  common  life,  and  a  detail  of 
domestic  events,  so  powerfully  affects  the  reader. 
The  irresistible  charm  this  novel  possesses,  evinces 
how  much  may  be  done,  without  the  aid  of  extra- 
vagant incident,  to  excite  the  imagination  and  in- 
terest the  feelings.  Few  productions  of  the  kind 
afford  greater  amusement  in  the  perusal,  and  still 
fewer  inculcate  more  impressive  lessons  of  morality. 
Though  wit  and  humour  abound  in  every  page, 
yet  in  the  whole  volume  there  is  not  one  thought 
injurious  in  its  tendency,  nor  one  sentiment  that 
can  offend  the  chastest  ear.  Its  language,  in  the 
words  of  an  elegant  writer,  is  what  "  angels  might 
\  have  heard  and  virgins  told."  In  the  delineation 
of  his  characters,  in  the  conduct  of  his  fable,  and 
in  the  moral  of  the  piece,  the  genius  of  the  author 


viii 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


is  equally  conspicuous.  The  hero  displays  with 
unaffected  simplicity  the  most  striking  virtues  that 
can  adorn  social  life ;  sincere  in  his  professions, 
humane  and  generous  in  his  disposition,  he  is  him- 
self a  pattern  of  the  character  he  represents.  The 
other  personages  are  drawn  with  similar  discrimi- 
nation. Each  is  distinguished  by  some  peculiar 
feature;  and  the  general  grouping  of  the  whole 
has  this  particular  excellence,  that  not  one  could  be 
wanted  without  injuring  the  unity  and  beauty  of 
the  design.  The  drama  of  the  tale  is  also  managed 
with  equal  skill  and  effect.  There  are  no  extra- 
vagant incidents,  and  no  forced  or  improbable  situ- 
ations ;  one  event  rises  out  of  another  in  the  same 
easy  and  natural  manner  as  flows  the  language  of 
the  narration ;  the  interest  never  flags,  and  is  kept 
up  to  the  last  by  the  expedient  of  concealing  the 
real  character  of  Burchell.  But  it  is  the  moral  of 
the  work  which  entitles  the  author  to  the  praise 
of  supereminent  merit  in  this  species  of  writing. 
No  writer  has  arrived  more  successfully  at  the  great 
ends  of  a  moralist.  By  the  finest  examples,  he 
inculcates  the  practice  of  benevolence,  patience  in 
suffering,  and  reliance  on  the  providence  of  God. 

As  a  writer  of  prose,  Dr.  Anderson  in  his  "  Bri- 
tish Poets"  says,  u  Goldsmith  must  be  allowed  to 
have  rivalled  and  even  exceeded  Dr.  Johnson  and 
his  imitator  Dr.  Hawksworth,  the  most  celebrated 
professional  prose  writer  of  his  time.    His  prose 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


ix 


may  be  regarded  as  the  model  of  perfection,  and 
the  standard  of  our  language ;  to  equal  which  the 
efforts  of  most  will  be  vain,  and,  to  exceed  itf 
every  expectation  folly." 

Johnson,  according  to  Bos  well,  said  of  his  frien  J, 
"  whether  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer, 
or  as  a  historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class.  He 
has  the  art  of  saying  every  thing  he  has  to  say  in 
a  pleasing  manner."  In  his  works  the  Doctor  has 
pronounced  him  to  be,  "  A  man  of  such  variety  of 
powers,  and  such  felicity  of  performance  that  he 
always  seemed  to  do  best  that  which  he  was  doing; 
a  man  who  had  the  art  of  being  minute  without 
tediousness,  and  general  without  confusion;  whose 
language  was  copious  without  exuberance,  exact 
without  constraint,  and  easy  without  weakness." — 
"  He  was,"  said  Johnson  emphatically,  on  another 
occasion,  "  a  very  great  man.  Every  year  he  lived 
he  would  have  deserved  Westminster  Abbey  the 
more !" 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  added  his  tribute  to  the 
throng.  "  The  wreath  of  Goldsmith,"  he  says,  "  is 
unsullied.  He  wrote  to  exalt  virtue  and  expose 
vice ;  and  he  accomplished  his  task  in  a  manner 
which  raises  him  to  the  highest  rank  among  British 
authors.  We  close  his  volume  [The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field] with  a  sigh  that  such  an  author  should  have 
been  so  prematurely,  removed  from  the  sphere  of 
literature  which  he  so  highly  adorned." 


X 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


As  a  poet,  all  that  tie  has  written  has  been  pro 
nounced  good  by  Lord  Byron,  while  in  the  passage 
which  contains  this  judgment,  his  Lordship  says 
that  not  one-half  is  good  of  the  iEneid,  of  Milton  or 
of  Dryden.  Campbell,  the  author  of  the  "Pleasures 
of  Hope,"  says  that  "  Goldsmith's  poetry  presents 
a  distinct  and  unbroken  view  of  poetical  delightful- 
ness.  His  descriptions  and  sentiments  have  the 
purest  zest  of  nature.    He  is  refined  without  false 

delicacy,  and  correct  without  insipidity  

He  unbends  from  graver  strains  of  reflection  to  ten- 
derness, and  even  to  playfulness,  with  an  ease  and 
grace  almost  exclusively  his  own;  and  connects  ex- 
tensive views  of  the  happiness  and  interests  of 
society  with  pictures  of  life  that  touch  the  heart  by 
their  familiarity." 

To  these  ample  praises  it  is  unnecessary  to  make 
any  addition.  It  may  however  be  interesting  to 
the  reader  to  be  informed  that,  both  in  his  poetry 
and  prose,  Goldsmith  usually  drew  from  nature, 
not  only  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  phrase, 
but  literally  and  in  fact. 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  description  of  the  family  of  Wakefield,  in  which  a  kindred 
likeness  prevails,  as  well  of  minds  as  of  persons. 

I  was  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who 
married  and  brought  up  a  large  family,  did  more 
service  than  he  who  continued  single  and  only 
talked  of  a  population.  From  this  motive,  I  had 
scarcely  taken  orders  a  year,  before  I  began  to 
think  seriously  of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife, 
as  she  did  her  wedding-gown,  not  for  a  fine  glossy 
surface,  but  for  such  qualities  as  would  wear  well. 
To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a  good-natured  notable 
woman ;  and  as  for  breeding,  there  were  few  coun- 
try ladies  who  could  show  more.  She  could  read 
any  English  book  without  much  spelling;  but  for 
pickling,  preserving  and  cookery,  none  could  excel 
her.  She  prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excel- 
lent contriver  in  housekeeping;  though  I  could 
never  find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all  her  con- 
trivances. 

(13) 


14 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our 
fondness  increased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in 
fact,  nothing  that  could  make  us  angry  with  the 
world  or  each  other.  We  had  an  elegant  house 
situated  in  a  fine  country  and  a  good  neighbour- 
hood. The  year  was  spent  in  moral  or  rural 
amusements,  in  visiting  our  rich  neighbours,  and 
relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no  revolu- 
tions to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo ;  all  our  ad- 
ventures were  by  the  fire-side,  and  all  our  migra- 
tions from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the 
traveller  or  stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry 
wine,  for  which  we  had  great  reputation ;  and  I 
profess  with  the  veracity  of  a  historian,  that  1 
never  knew  one  of  them  to  find  fault  with  it.  Our 
cousins  too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remem- 
bered their  affinity,  without  any  help  from  the 
herald's  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see  us. 
Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honour  by  these 
claims  of  kindred ;  as  we  had  the  blind,  the  maim- 
ed, and  the  halt  amongst  the  number.  However, 
my  wife  always  insisted,  that  as  they  were  the 
saiLe  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at  the 
same  table.  So  that  if  we  had  not  very  rich,  we 
gem  orally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us;  for 
this  remark  will  hold  good  through  life,  that  the 
pooier  the  guest,  the  better  pleased  he  ever  is  with 
being  treated  :  and  as  some  men  gaze  with  admira- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


15 


fcion  at  the  colours  of  a  tulip,  or  the  wings  of  a 
butterfly,  so  I  was  by  nature  an  admirer  cf  happy 
human  faces.  However,  when  any  one  of  our  re- 
lations was  found  to  be  a  person  of  very  bad  cha- 
racter, a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to 
get  rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house  I  ever  took 
care  to  lend  him  a  riding-coat,  or  a  pair  of  boots,  or 
sometimes  a  horse  of  small  value,  and  I  always 
had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he  never  came  back 
to  return  them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of 
such  as  we  did  not  like;  but  never  was  the  family 
of  Wakefield  known  to  turn  the  traveller  or  the 
poor  dependent  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of  much 
happiness,  not  but  that  we  sometimes  had  those 
little  rubs  which  Providence  sends  to  enhance  the 
value  of  its  favours.  My  orchard  was  often  robbed 
by  schoolboys,  and  my  wife's  custards  plundered 
by  the  cats  or  the  children.  The  'Squire  would 
sometimes  fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic  parts  of 
my  sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife's  civilities 
at  church  with  a  mutilated  courtesy.  But  we  soon 
got  over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such  accidents, 
and  usually  in  three  or  four  days  began  to  wonder 
how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as 
they  were  educated  without  softness,  so  they  were 
at  once  well  formed  and  healthy ;  my  sons  hardy 
and  active,  my  daughters  beautiful  and  blooming. 


10 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


When  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle, 
which  promised  to  be  the  supports  of  my  declining 
age,  I  could  not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story 
of  Count  Abensberg,  who  in  Henry  Second's  pro- 
gress through  Germany,  while  other  courtiers  came 
with  their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty-two  chil- 
dren, and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign  as  the 
most  valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In  this 
manner,  though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered  them 
as  a  very  valuable  present  made  to  my  country, 
and  consequently  looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor. 
Our  eldest  son  was  named  George,  after  his  uncle, 
who  left  us  ten  thousand  pounds.  Our  second 
child,  a  girl,  I  intended  to  call  after  her  aunt 
Grissel ;  but  my  wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy 
had  been  reading  romances,  insisted  upon  her  being 
called  Olivia.  In  less  than  another  year  we  had 
another  daughter,  and  now  I  was  determined  that 
Grissel  should  be  her  name;  but  a  rich  relation 
taking  a  fancy  to  stand  godmother,  the  girl  was, 
by  her  directions,  called  Sophia;  so  that  we  had 
two  romantic  names  in  the  family;  but  I  solemnly 
protest  I  had  no  hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next, 
and  after  an  interval  of  twelve  years  we  had  two 
sons  more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation  when  1 
saw  my  little  ones  about  me ;  but  the  vanity  and 
the  satisfaction  of  my  wife  were  even  greater  than 
mine.    When  our  visitors  would  say,  "  Well3  upon 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


17 


my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  chil* 
dren  in  the  whole  country;" — "Ay,  neighbour/' 
she  would  answer,  "they  are  as  Heaven  made 
them,  handsome  enough  if  they  be  good  enough ; 
for  handsome  is  that  handsome  does."  And  then 
she  would  bid  the  girls  hold  up  their  heads ;  who, 
to  conceal  nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome. 
Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a  circumstance  with 
me,  that  I  should  scarcely  have  remembered  to 
mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a  general  topic  of  con- 
versation in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  about  eigh- 
teen, had  that  luxuriancy  of  beauty  with  w^hieh 
painters  generally  draw  Hebe ;  open,  sprightly,  and 
commanding.  Sophia  s  features  were  not  so  strik- 
ing at  first,  but  often  did  more  certain  execution ; 
for  they  were  soft,  modest  and  alluring.  The  one 
vanquished  by  a  single  blow,  the  other  by  efforts 
successfully  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  formed 
from  the  turn  of  her  features,  at  least  it  was  so 
with  my  daughters.  Olivia  wished  for  many  lovers, 
Sophia  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was  often  affected 
from  too  great  a  desire  to  please.  Sophia  even  re- 
pressed excellence  from  her  fears  to  offend.  The 
one  entertained  me  with  her  vivacity  when  I  was 
gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I  was  serious. 
But  these  qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in 
either,  and  I  have  often  seen  them  exchange  cha- 
racters, for  a  whole  day  together.    A  suit  of 


18 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


mourning  has  transformed  my  coquette  into  a 
prude,  and  a  new  set  of  ribands  has  given  her 
younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My 
eldest  son  George  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended 
him  for  one  of  the  learned  professions.  My  second 
boy  Moses,  whom  I  designed  for  business,  received 
a  sort  of  miscellaneous  education  at  home.  But  it 
is  needless  to  attempt  describing  the  particular  cha- 
racters of  young  people  that  had  seen  but  very 
little  of  the  world.  In  short,  a  family  likeness 
prevailed  through  all,  and  properly  speaking,  they 
had  but  one  character,  that  of  being  all  equally 
generous,  credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Family  misfortunes. — The  loss  of  fortune  only  serves  to  increase  the 
pride  of  the  worthy. 

The  temporal  concerns  of  our  family  were  chiefly 
committed  to  my  wife's  management;  as  to  the 
spiritual,  I  took  them  entirely  under  my  own  direc- 
tion. The  profits  of  my  living,  which  amounted 
to  but  thirty-five  pounds  a  year,  I  made  over  to  the 
orphans  and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese : 
for  having  a  fortune  of  my  own,  I  was  careless  of 
temporalities,  and  felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  doing 
my  duty  without  reward.    I  also  set  a  resolution 


YICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


19 


of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being  acquainted  with 
every  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting  the  married 
men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors  to  matrimony, 
so  that  in  a  few  years  it  was  a  common  saying,  that 
there  were  three  strange  wants  at  Wakefield,  a 
parson  wanting  pride,  young  men  wanting  wives, 
and  ale-houses  wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite 
topics,  and  I  wrote  several  sermons  to  prove  its 
happiness ;  but  there  was  a  peculiar  tenet  which 
I  made  a  point  of  supporting ;  for  I  maintained 
with  Whiston,  that  is  was  unlawful  for  a  priest  of 
the  church  of  England,  after  the  death  of  his  first 
wife  to  take  a  second  ;  or  to  express  it  in  one  word, 
I  valued  myself  on  being  a  strict  monogamist. 

I  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute, 
Dn  which  so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been 
written.  I  published  some  tracts  upon  the  subject 
myself,  which,  as  they  never  sold,  I  have  the  conso- 
lation of  thinking  were  read  only  by  the  happy 
few.  Some  of  my  friends  call  this  my  weak  side  ; 
bi  t  alas  !  they  had  not  like  me  made  it  the  subject 
ol  long  contemplation.  The  more  I  reflected  upon  it, 
the  more  important  it  appeared.  I  even  went  a 
step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying  my  principles  : 
as  he  had  engraven  upon  his  wife's  tomb  that  she 
was  the  only  wife  of  William  Whiston ;  so  I  wrote 
a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife,  though  still  living, 
ui  which  I  extolled  her  prudence,  economy,  and 

2 


L-0 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


obedience  till  death ;  and  having  got  it  copied  fair, 
with  an  elegant  frame,  it  was  placed  over  the 
chimney-piece,  where  it  answered  several  very 
useful  purposes.  In  admonishing  my  wife  of  her 
duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to  her,  it  inspired  her 
with  a  passion  for  fame,  and  constantly  put  her  in 
mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so 
often  recommended,  that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon 
leaving  college,  fixed  his  affections  upon  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  who  was  a  digni- 
tary in  the  church,  and  in  circumstances  to  give 
her  a  large  fortune.  But  fortune  was  her  smallest 
accomplishment.  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was 
allowed  by  all  (except  my  two  daughters)  to  be 
completely  pretty.  Her  youth,  health  and  inno- 
cence, were  still  heightened  by  a  complexion  so 
transparent,  and  such  a  happy  sensibility  of  look, 
as  even  age  could  not  gaze  on  with  indifference. 
As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  I  could  make  a  very  hand 
some  settlement  on  my  son,  he  was  not  averse  to 
the  match  :  so  both  families  lived  together  in  all 
that  harmony  which  generally  precedes  an  expected 
alliance.  Being  convinced  by  experience  that  the 
days  of  courtship  are  the  most  happy  of  our  lives, 
1  was  willing  enough  to  lengthen  the  period ;  and 
the  various  amusements  which  the  young  people 
every  day  shared  in  each  other  s  company  seemeu 
to   increase  their  passion.     We  were  generally 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


21 


awaked  in  the  morning  by  music,  and  on  fine  days 
rode  a  hunting.  The  hours  between  breakfast  and 
dinner  the  ladies  devoted  to  dress  and  study  :  they 
usually  read  a  page,  and  then  gazed  at  themselves 
in  the  glass,  which  even  philosophers  might  own 
often  presented  the  page  of  greatest  beauty.  At 
dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead ;  for  as  she  always 
insisted  on  carving  every  thing  herself,  it  being  her 
mothers  way,  she  gave  us  upon  these  occasions  the 
history  of  every  dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to 
prevent  the  ladies  leaving  us,  I  generally  ordered 
the  table  to  be  removed ;  and  sometimes,  with*  the 
music  masters  assistance,  the  girls  would  give  us 
a  very  agreeable  concert.  Walking  out,  drinking 
tea,  country  dances,  and  forfeits,  shortened  the  rest 
of  the  day,  without  the  assistance  of  cards,  as  I 
hated  all  manner  of  gaming,  except  backgammon, 
at  which  my  old  friend  and  I  sometimes  took  a  two- 
penny hit.  Nor  can  I  here  pass  over  an  ominous 
circumstance  that  happened  the  last  time  we  played 
together ;  I  only  wanted  to  fling  a  q uatre,  and  yet 
I  threw  deuce  ace  five  times  running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till 
at  last  it  was  thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for 
the  nuptials  of  the  young  couple,  who  seemed 
earnestly  to  desire  it.  During  the  preparations  for 
the  wedding,  I  need  not  describe  the  busy  import- 
ance of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my  daughters: 
in  fact,  my  attention  was  fixed  on  another  object. 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


the  completing  a  tract  which  I  intended  shortly  to 
publish  in  defence  of  my  favourite  principle.  As  I 
looked  upon  this  as  a  master-piece,  both  for  argu- 
ment and  style,  I  could  not  in  the  pride  of  my 
heart  avoid  showing  it  to  my  old  friend  Mr  Wil- 
mot,  as  I  made  no  doubt  of  receiving  his  approba- 
tion; but  not  till  too  late  I  discovered  that  he 
was  most  violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opinion, 
and  with  good  reason ;  for  he  was  at  that  time  ac- 
tually courting  a  fourth  wife.  This  as  may  be 
expected,  produced  a  dispute  attended  with  some 
acrimony,  which  threatened  to  interrupt  our  in- 
tended alliance  :  but  the  day  before  that  appointed 
for  the  ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the  subject 
at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both  sides  : 
he  asserted  that  I  was  heterodox,  I  retorted  the 
charge ;  he  replied  and  I  rejoined.  In  the  mean- 
time, while  the  controversy  was  hottest,  I  was 
called  out  by  one  of  my  relations,  who  with  a  face 
of  concern,  advised  me  to  give  up  the  dispute,  at 
least  till  my  son's  wedding  was  over.  "  How !"  cried 
I,  "  relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and  let  him  be  a 
husband,  already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  ab- 
surdity. You  might  as  well  advise  me  to  give  up 
my  fortune  as  my  argument."  "  Your  fortune," 
returned  my  friend,  "I  am  now  sorry  to  inform 
you  is  almost  nothing.  The  merchant  in  town,  in 
whose  hands  your  money  was  lodged,  has  gone  off 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


23 


to  avoid  a  statute  of  bankruptcy,  and  is  thought 
not  to  have  left  a  shilling  in  the  pound.  I  was 
unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the  family  with  the  ac- 
count until  after  the  wedding :  but  now  it  may  serve 
to  moderate  your  warmth  in  the  argument ;  for,  I 
suppose  your  own  prudence  will  enforce  the  neces- 
sity of  dissembling,  at  least  till  your  son  has  the 
young  lady's  fortune  secure."  "Well/'  returned  I, 
"  if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I  am  to  be  a 
beggar,  it  shall  never  make  me  a  rascal,  or  induce 
me  to  disavow  my  principles.  I'll  go  this  moment 
and  inform  the  company  of  my  circumstances :  and 
as  for  the  argument,  I  even  here  retract  my  former 
concessions  in  the  old  gentleman's  favour,  nor  will 
I  allow  him  now  to  be  a  husband  in  any  sense  of 
the  expression." 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different  sen- 
timents of  both  families  when  I  divulged  the  news 
of  our  misfortune  :  but  what  others  felt  was  slight 
to  what  the  lovers  appeared  to  endure.  Mr.  Wil- 
mot,  who  seemed  before  sufficiently  inclined  to 
break  off  the  match,  was  by  this  blow  soon  deter- 
mined :  one  virtue  he  had  in  perfection,  which  waa 
prudence,  too  often  the  only  one  that  is  left  at 
seventy-two. 


24 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  Migration. — The  fortunate  circumstances  of  our  lives  are  gene- 
rally found  at  last  to  be  of  our  own  procuring. 

The  only  hope  of  our  family  now  was,  that  the 
report  of  our  misfortunes  might  be  malicious  or 
premature;  but  a  letter  from  my  agent  in  town 
soon  came  with  a  confirmation  of  every  particular. 
The  loss  of  'fortune  to  myself  alone  would  have 
been  trifling;  the  only  uneasiness  I  felt  was  for 
my  family,  who  were  to  be  humble  without  an 
education  to  render  them  callous  to  contempt. 

Near  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  attempted 
to  restrain  their  affliction ;  for  premature  consola- 
tion is  but  the  remembrance  of  sorrow.  During 
this  interval,  my  thoughts  were  employed  on  some 
future  means  of  supporting  them;  and  at  last  a 
small  cure  of  fifteen  pounds  a  year  was  offered  me 
in  a  distant  neighbourhood,  where  I  could  still  enjoy 
my  principles  without  molestation.  With  this  pro- 
posal I  joyfully  closed,  having  determined  to  in- 
crease my  salary  by  managing  a  little  farm. 

Having  taken  this  resolution,  my  next  care  was 
to  get  together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune  :  and,  all 
debts  collected  and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand 
pounds  we  had  but  four  hundred  remaining.  My 
chief  attention,  therefore,  was  now  to  bring  down 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


25 


the  pride  of  my  family  to  their  circumstances ;  for 
I  well  knew  that  aspiring  beggary  is  wretchedness 
itself.  "  You  cannot  be  ignorant,  my  children," 
cried  I,  "  that  no  prudence  of  ours  could  have  pre- 
vented our  late  misfortune ;  but  prudence  may  do 
much  in  disappointing  its  effects.  We  are  now 
poor,  my  fondlings,  and  wisdom  bids  us  conform  to 
our  humble  situation.  Let  us  then,  without  re- 
pining, give  up  those  splendours  with  which  num- 
bers are  wretched,  and  seek  in  humbler  circum- 
stances that  peace  with  which  all  may  be  happy. 
The  poor  live  pleasantly  without  our  help,  why 
then  should  not  we  learn  to  live  without  theirs  ? 
No,  my  children,  let  us  from  this  moment  give  up 
all  pretensions  to  gentility ;  we  have  still  enough 
left  for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw 
upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune." 

As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a  scholar,  I  deter- 
mined to  send  him  to  town,  where  his  abilities 
might  contribute  to  our  support  and  his  own.  The 
separation  of  friends  and  families  is,  perhaps,  one 
of  the  most  distressful  circumstances  attendant  on 
penury.  The  day  soon  arrived  on  which  we  were 
to  disperse  for  the  first  time.  My  son,  after  taking 
leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest,  who  mingled  their 
tears  and  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a  blessing  from 
me.  This  I  gave  him  from  my  heart,  and  which, 
added  to  five  guineas,  was  all  the  patrimony  I  had 
now  to  bestow.    "  You  are  going,  my  boy,"  cried  I, 


26 


VICAR   0E  WAKEFIELD. 


"  to  London  on  foot,  in  the  manner  Hooker,  youi 
great  ancestor,  travelled  there  before  }^ou.  Take 
from  me  the  same  horse  that  was  given  him  by  the 
good  Bishop  Jewel,  this  staff,  and  this  book  too,  it 
will  be  your  comfort  on  the  way :  these  two  lines 
in  it  are  worth  a  million,  i  I  have  been  young,  and 
now  am  old ;  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous  man 
forsaken,  or  his  seed  begging  their  bread.'  Let  this 
be  your  consolation  as  you  travel  on.  Go,  my  boy ; 
whatever  be  thy  fortune,  let  me  see  thee  once  a 
year ;  still  keep  a  good  heart,  and  farewell."  As 
he  was  possessed  of  integrity  and  honour,  I  was 
under  no  apprehensions  from  throwing  him  naked 
into  the  amphitheatre  of  life ;  for  I  knew  he  would 
act  a  good  part,  whether  vanquished  or  victorious. 

His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our  own, 
which  arrived  a  few  days  afterwards.  The  leaving 
a  neighbourhood  in  which  we  had  enjoyed  so  many 
hours  of  tranquillity,  was  not  without  a  tear  which 
scarcely  fortitude  itself  could  suppress.  Besides,  a 
journey  of  seventy  miles  to  a  family  that  had 
hitherto  never  been  above  ten  from  home,  filled  us 
with  apprehension ;  and  the  cries  of  the  poor,  who 
followed  us  for  some  miles,  contributed  to  increase 
it.  The  first  day's  journey  brought  us  in  safety 
within  thirty  miles  of  our  future  retreat,  and  we 
put  up  for  the  night  at  an  obscure  inn  in  a  village 
by  the  way.  When  we  were  shown  a  room,  I  de- 
sired the  landlord,  in  my  usual  way,  to  let  us  have 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


27 


his  company,  with  which  he  complied,  as  what  he 
drank  would  increase  the  bill  next  morning.  He 
knew,  however,  the  whole  neighbourhood  to  which 
I  was  removing,  particularly  'Squire  Thornhill, 
who  was  to  be  my  landlord,  and  who  lived  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  place.  This  gentleman  he  de- 
scribed as  one  who  desired  to  know  little  more  of 
the  world  than  its  pleasures,  being  particularly 
remarkable  for  his  attatchment  to  the  fair  sex.  He 
observed  that  no  virtue  was  able  to  resist  his  arts 
and  assiduity,  and  that  scarcely  a  farmer  s  daughter 
within  ten  miles  round,  but  what  had  found  him 
successful  and  faithless.  Though  this  account  gave 
me  some  pain,  it  had  a  very  different  effect  upon 
my  daughters,  whose  features  seemed  to  brighten 
with  the  expectation  of  an  approaching  triumph ; 
nor  was  my  wife  less  pleased  and  confident  of  their 
allurements  and  virtue.  While  our  thoughts  were 
thus  employed  the  hostess  entered  the  room  to  in- 
form her  husband,  that  the  strange  gentleman,  who 
had  been  two  days  in  the  house,  wanted  money, 
and  could  not  satisfy  them  for  his  reckoning. 
"Want  money!"  replied  the  host,  "that  must  be 
impossible,  for  it  was  no  later  than  yesterday  he 
paid  three  guineas  to  our  beadle  to  spare  an  old 
broken  soldier  that  was  to  be  whipped  through  the 
town  for  dog-stealing."  The  hostess,  however,  still 
persisting  in  her  first  assertion,  he  was  preparing  to 
leave  the  room,  swearing  that  he  would  be  satisfied 


28 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD 


one  way  or  another,  when  I  begged  the  landlord 
would  introduce  me  to  a  stranger  of  so  much  cha- 
rity as  he  described.  With  this  he  complied,  showing 
in  a  gentleman  who  seemed  to  be  about  thirty, 
dressed  in  clothes  that  once  were  laced.  His  person 
was  well  formed,  and  his  face  marked  with  the  lines 
of  thinking. 

He  had  something  short  and  dry  in  his  address, 
and  seemed  not  to  understand  ceremony,  or  to 
despise  it.  Upon  the  landlord's  leaving  the  room, 
I  could  not  avoid  expressing  my  concern  to  the 
stranger  at  seeing  a  gentleman  in  such  circumstances, 
and  offered  him  my  purse  to  satisfy  the  present 
demand.  "  I  take  it  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  replied 
he,  "  and  am  glad  that  a  late  oversight,  in  giving 
what  money  I  had  about  me,  has  shown  me  that 
there  are  still  some  men  like  you.  I  must,  however, 
previously  entreat  being  informed  of  the  name  and 
residence  of  my  benefactor,  in  order  to  repay  him 
as  soon  as  possible."  In  this  I  satisfied  him  fully, 
not  only  mentioning  my  name  and  late  misfortunes, 
but  the  place  to  which  I  was  going  to  remove. 
"  This,"  cried  he,  "  happens  still  more  luckily  than 
I  had  hoped  for,  as  I  am  going  the  same  way  my- 
self, and  having  been  detained  here  two  days  by  the 
floods,  which  I  hope  to-morrow  will  be  found  pass- 
able." I  testified  the  pleasure  I  should  have  in  his 
company,  and  my  wife  and  daughters  joining  in 
entreaty,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  to  supper. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


29 


The  stranger's  conversation,  which  was  at  once 
pleasing  and  instructive,  induced  me  to  wish  for  a 
continuance  of  it;  but  it  was  now  high  time  to 
retire  and  take  refreshment  against  the  fatigues  of 
the  following  day. 

The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  together : 
my  family  on  horseback,  while  Mr.  Burchell,  our 
new  companion,  walked  along  the  foot-path  by  the 
road-side,  observing  with  a  smile,  that  as  we  were 
ill  mounted,  he  would  be  too  generous  to  attempt 
leaving  us  behind.  As  the  floods  were  not  yet 
subsided,  we  were  obliged  to  hire  a  guide,  who 
trotted  on  before,  Mr.  Burchell  and  I  bringing  up 
the  rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the  road 
with  philosophical  disputes,  which  he  seemed  to 
understand  perfectly.  But  what  surprised  me  most 
was  that  though  he  was  a  money-borrower,  he  de- 
fended his  opinions  with  as  much  obstinacy  as  if 
he  had  been  my  patron.  He  now  and  then  also 
informed  me  to  whom  the  different  seats  belonged 
that  lay  in  our  view  as  we  travelled  the  road. 
"  That,"  cried  he,  pointing  to  a  very  magnificent 
house  which  stood  at  some  distance,  "  belongs  to 
Mr.  Thornhill,  a  young  gentleman  who  enjoys  a 
large  fortune,  though  entirely  dependent  on  the 
will  of  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Thornhill,  a  gentle- 
man who,  content  with  a  little  himself,  permits  his 
nephew  to  enjoy  the  rest,  and  chiefly  resides  in 
tcwn."    "  What!"  cried  I,  "is  my  young  landlord 


30 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


then  the  nephew  of  a  man,  whose  virtues,  gene- 
rosity, and  singularities  are  so  universally  known  ? 
I  have  heard  Sir  William  Thornhill  represented  as 
one  of  the  most  generous  yet  whimsical  men  in  the 
kingdom ;  a  man  of  consummate  benevolence." 
"  Something,  perhaps,  too  much  so,"  replied  Mr. 
Burchell,  "  at  least  he  carried  benevolence  to  an 
excess  when  young;  for  his  passions  were  then 
strong,  and  as  they  were  all  upon  the  side  of  virtue, 
they  led  it  up  to  a  romantic  extreme.  He  early 
began  to  aim  at  the  qualifications  of  the  soldier  and 
scholar ;  was  soon  distinguished  in  the  army,  and 
had  some  reputation  among  men  of  learning. 
Adulation  ever  follows  the  ambitious;  for  such 
alone  receive  most  pleasure  from  flattery.  He  was 
surrounded  with  crowds,  who  showed  him  only  one 
side  of  their  character :  so  that  he  began  to  lose  a 
regard  for  private  interest  in  universal  sympathy. 
He  loved  all  mankind ;  for  fortune  prevented  him 
from  knowing  that  there  were  rascals.  Physicians 
tell  us  of  a  disorder,  in  which  the  whole  body  is  so 
exquisitely  sensible  that  the  slightest  touch  gives 
pain :  what  some  have  thus  suffered  in  their  persons, 
this  gentleman  felt  in  his  mind.  The  slightest  dis- 
tress, whether  real  or  fictitious,  touched  him  to  the 
quick,  and  his  soul  laboured  under  a  sickly  sensi- 
bility to  the  miseries  of  others.  Thus  disposed  to 
relieve,  it  will  be  easily  conjectured  he  found 
numbers  disposed  to  solicit ;  his  profusions  began 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


31 


to  impair  his  fortune,  but  not  his  good-nature;  that, 
indeed,  was  seen  to  increase  as  the  other  seemed  to 
decay  :  he  grew  improvident  as  he  grew  poor ;  and 
though  he  talked  like  a  man  of  sense,  his  actions 
were  those  of  a  fool.     Still,  however  being  sur- 
rounded with  importunity,  and  no  longer  able  to 
satisfy  every  request  that  was  made  him,  instead 
of  money  he  gave  promises.    They  were  all  he  had 
to  bestow,  and  he  had  not  resolution  enough  to  give 
any  man  pain  by  a  denial.    By  this  he  drew  around 
him  crowds  of  dependents,  whom  he  was  sure  to 
disappoint,  yet  he  wished  to  relieve.    These  hung 
upon  him  for  a  time,  and  left  him  with  merited 
reproaches  and  contempt.    But  in  proportion  as 
he  became  contemptible  to  others,  he  became  des- 
picable to  himself.     His  mind  had  leaned  upon 
their  adulation,  and  that  support  taken  away,  he 
could  find  no  pleasure  in  the  applause  of  his  heart, 
which  he  had  never  learned  to  reverence.  The 
world  now  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect;  the 
flattery  of  his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into  simple 
approbation.     Approbation  soon  took  the  more 
friendly  form  of  advice,  and  advice,  when  rejected, 
produced  their  reproaches.  He  now  therefore  found, 
that  such  friends  as  benefits  had  gathered  round 
him,  were  little  estimable  :  he  now  found  that  a 
man's  own  heart  must  be  ever  given  to  gain  that 
of  another.    I  now  found,  that — that — I  forget 
what  1  was  going  to  observe ;  in  short,  sir,  he 


32 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


resolved  to  respect  himself,  and  laid  down  a  plan  of 
restoring  his  fallen  fortune.  For  this  purpose,  in 
his  own  whimsical  manner,  he  travelled  through 
Europe  on  foot,  and  now,  though  he  has  scarcely 
attained  the  age  of  thirty,  his  circumstances  are 
more  affluent  than  ever.  At  present,  his  bounties 
are  more  rational  and  moderate  than  before ;  but 
still  he  preserves  the  character  of  a  humorist,  and 
finds  most  pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues." 

My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr. 
BurcheH's  account,  that  I  scarcely  looked  forward  as 
we  went  along,  till  we  were  alarmed  by  the  cries  of 
my  family,  when  turning,  I  perceived  my  youngest 
daughter  in  the  midst  of  a  rapid  stream,  thrown 
from  her  horse,  and  struggling  with  the  torrent. 
She  had  sunk  twice,  nor  was  it  in  my  power  to 
disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring  her  relief.  My 
sensations  were  even  too  violent  to  permit  my 
attempting  her  rescue :  she  must  have  certainly 
perished  had  not  my  companion,  perceiving  her 
danger,  instantly  plunged  in  to  her  relief,  and,  with 
some  difficulty,  brought  her  in  safety  to  the  opposite 
shore.  By  taking  the  current  a  little  further  up, 
the  rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over,  where  we 
had  an  opportunity  of  joining  our  acknowledgments 
to  hers.  Her  gratitude  may  be  more  readily  ima- 
gined than  described :  she  thanked  her  deliverer 
more  with  looks  than  words,  and  continued  to  lean 
upon  his  arm,  as  if  still  willing  to  receive  assistance 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


33 


My  wife  also  hoped  one  day  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  returning  his  kindness  at  her  own  house.  Thus, 
after  we  were  refreshed  at  the  next  inn,  and  had 
dined  together,  as  Mr.  Burchell  was  going  to  a 
different  part  of  the  country,  he  took  leave :  and 
we  pursued  pur  journey  ;  my  wife  observing  as  he 
went,  that  she  liked  him  extremely,  and  protesting, 
that  if  he  had  birth  and  fortune  to  entitle  him  to 
match  into  such  a  family  as  ours,  she  knew  no  man 
she  would  sooner  fix  upon.  I  could  not  but  smile 
to  hear  her  talk  in  this  lofty  strain  :  but  I  never 
was  much  displeased  with  those  harmless  delusions 
that  tend  to  make  us  more  happy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  proof  that  even  the  humblest  fortune  may  grant  happiness,  which 
depends  not  on  circumstances  but  constitution. 

The  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neigbour- 
hood,  consisting  of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own 
grounds,  and  were  equal  strangers  to  opulence  and 
poverty.  As  they  had  almost  all  the  conveniences 
of  life  within  themselves,  they  seldom  visited  towns 
or  cities  in  search  of  superfluity.  Remote  from 
the  polite,  they  still  retained  the  primeval  simplicity 
of  manners :  and  frugal  by  habit,  they  scarcely 
knew  that  temperance  was  a  virtue.  They 
wrought  with  cheerfulness  on  days  of  laboui ;  bu1 


34 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  and 
pleasure.  They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent 
true  love-knots  on  Valentine  morning,  ate  pancakes 
on  Shrove-tide,  showed  their  wit  on  the  first  of 
April,  and  religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas 
eve.  Being  apprised  of  our  approach,  the  whole 
neighbourhood  came  out  to  meet  their  minister, 
dressed  in  their  finest  clothes,  and  preceded  by  a 
pipe  and  tabor.  A  feast  also  was  provided  for  our 
reception,  at  which  we  sat  cheerfully  down :  and 
what  the  conversation  wanted  in  wit  was  made  up 
in  laughter. 

Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of 
a  sloping  hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood 
behind,  and  a  prattling  river  before  ;  on  one  side  a 
meadow,  on  the  other  a  green.  My  farm  consisted 
of  about  twenty  acres  of  excellent  land,  having 
given  a  hundred  pounds  for  my  predecessor's  good 
will.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  neatness  of  my 
little  enclosures  ;  the  elms  and  hedge-rows  appearing 
with  inexpressible  beauty.  My  house  consisted  of 
but  one  story,  and  was  covered  with  thatch,  which 
gave  it  an  air  of  great  snugness ;  the  walls  on  the 
inside  were  nicely  white-washed,  and  my  daughters 
undertook  to  adorn  them  with  pictures  of  their 
own  designing.  Though  the  same  room  served  us 
for  parlour  and  kitchen,  that  only  made  it  the 
warmer.  Besides,  as  it  was  kept  with  the  utmost 
neatness,  the  dishes,  plates,  and  coppers  being  well 


TICAli   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


35 


scoured,  and  al]  disposed  in  bright  rows  on  the 
shelves,  the  eye  was  agreeably  relieved,  and  did 
not  want  richer  furniture.  There  were  three  other 
apartments,  one  for  my  wife  and  me,  another  for 
our  two  daughters,  within  our  own,  and  the  third, 
with  two  beds,  for  the  rest  of  the  children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws,  was 
regulated  in  the  following  manner :  by  sunrise  we 
all  assembled  in  our  common  apartment ;  the  fire 
being  previously  kindled  by  the  servant.  After  we 
had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony,  for  I 
always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechanical 
forms  of  good-breeding,  without  which  freedom 
ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in  gratitude 
to  that  Being,  who  gave  us  another  day.  This 
duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue 
our  usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and 
daughters  employed  themselves  in  providing  break- 
fast, which  was  always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I 
allowed  half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for 
dinner ;  which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent  mirth 
between  my  wife  and  daughters,  and  in  philosophi- 
cal arguments  between  my  son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued 
our  labours  after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned 
home  to  the  e^ectant  family  ;  where  smiling  looks, 
n  neat  hearth,  and  pleasant  fire,  were  prepared  foi 
our  reception.  Nor  were  we  without  guests ;  some- 
times Farmer  Flamborough,  our  talkative  neighbour, 

3 


36 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  often  the  blind  piper  would  pay  us  a  visit,  and 
taste  our  gooseberry-wine  ;  for  the  making  of  which 
we  had  lost  neither  the  receipt  nor  the  reputation. 
These  harmless  people  had  several  ways  of  being 
good  company ;  while  one  played,  the  other  would 
sing  some  soothing  ballad,  Johnny  Armstrongs 
last  good  night,  or  the  cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen. 
The  night  was  concluded  in  the  manner  we  began 
the  morning,  my  youngest  boys  being  appointed  to 
read  the  lessons  of  the  day ;  and  he  that  read 
loudest,  distinctest,  and  best,  was  to  have  a  half- 
penny on  Sunday  to  put  in  the  poor  s  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of 
finery,  which  all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not 
restrain.  How  well  soever  I  fancied  my  lectures 
against  pride  had  conquered  the  vanity  of  my 
daughters ;  yet  I  found  them  still  secretly  attached 
V  .1  .  former  finery  :  they  still  loved  laces, 
ribands,  bugles,  and  catgut;  my  wife  herself 
retained  a  passion  for  her  crimson  peduasoy,  be- 
cause I  formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

TVu  nrst  Sunday  in  particular  their  behavioui 
served  to  mortify  me :  I  had  desired  my  girls  the 
preceding  night  to  be  dressed  early  the  next  day  : 
for  I  always  loved  to  be  at  church  a  good  while 
before  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  They  punc- 
tually obeyed  my  directions ;  but  when  we  were  to 
assemble  in  the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  camp 
my  wife  and  daughters  dressed  out  in  all  their 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


former  splendour :  their  hair  plastered  up  with 
pomatum,  their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains 
bundled  up  in  a  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every 
motion.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  their  vanity, 
particularly  that  of  my  wife,  from  whom  I  expected 
more  discretion.  In  this  exigence,  therefore,  my 
only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with  an  impor- 
tant air,  to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were  amazed 
at  the  command;  but  I  repeated  it  with  more 
solemnity  than  before — "  Surely,  my  dear,  you  jest," 
cried  my  wife,  "  we  can  walk  it  perfectly  well :  we 
want  no  coach  to  carry  us  now."  "You  mistake, 
child,"  returned  I,  "  we  do  want  a  coach  ;  for  if  we 
walk  to  church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  in 
the  parish  will  hoot  after  us."  "  Indeed,"  replied 
my  wife,  "I  always  imagined  that  my  Charles  was 
fond  of  seeing  his  children  neat  and  handsome 
about  him,"  "  You  may  be  as  neat  as  you  please," 
interrupted  I,  "  and  I  shall  love  you  the  better  for 
it ;  but  all  this  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery.  These 
rufflings,  and  pinkings,  and  patchings,  will  only 
make  us  hated  by  all  the  wives  of  all  our  neigh- 
bours. No,  my  children,"  continued  I,  more 
gravely,  "  those  gowns  may  be  altered  into  some- 
thing of  a  plainer  cut ;  for  finery  is  very  unbecoming 
in  us,  who  want  the  means  of  decency.  I  do  not 
know  whether  such  flouncing  and  shredding  is  be- 
coming even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider,  upon  a 
moderate  calculation,  that  the  nakedness  of  the 


38 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


indigent  world  might  be  clothed  from  the  trimmings 
of  the  vain." 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect ;  they 
went  with  great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to 
change  their  dress ;  and  the  next  day  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  finding  my  daughters,  at  their  own 
request,  employed  in  cutting  up  their  trains  into 
Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the  two  little 
ones,  and,  what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the 
gowns  seemed  improved  by  this  curtailing. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  new  and  great  acquaintance  introduced. — What  we  place  most 
hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most  fatal. 

At  a  small  distance  from  the  house,  my  prede- 
cessor had  made  a  seat,  overshadowed  by  a  hedge 
of  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle.  Here,  when  the 
weather  was  fine  and  our  labour  soon  finished,  we 
usually  sat  together,  to  enjoy  an  extensive  land- 
scape in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  Here  too  we 
drank  tea,  which  was  now  become  an  occasional 
banquet ;  and  as  we  had  it  but  seldom,  it  diffused  a 
new  joy,  the  preparations  for  it  being  made  with 
no  small  share  of  bustle  and  ceremony.  On  these 
occasions  our  two  little  ones  always  read  to  us,  and 
they  were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done. 
Sometimes,  to  give  a  variety  to  our  amusements, 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


39 


the  girls  sang  to  the  guitar;  and  while  they  thus 
formed  a  little  concert,  my  wife  and  I  would  stroll 
down  the  sloping  field,  that  was  embellished  with 
blue-bells  and  centaury,  talk  of  our  children  with 
rapture,  and  enjoy  the  breeze  that  wafted  both 
health  and  harmony. 

In  this  manner  we  began  to  find  that  every  situa- 
tion in  life  might  bring  its  own  peculiar  pleasures  ; 
every  morning  awaked  us  to  a  repetition  of  toil ; 
but  the  evening  repaid  it  with  vacant  hilarity. 

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a  holi- 
day, for  I  kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation  from 
labour,  that  I  had  drawn  out  my  family  to  our 
usual  place  of  amusement,  and  our  young  musi- 
cians began  their  usual  concert.  As  we  were  thus 
engaged,  we  saw  a  stag  bound  nimbly  by,  within 
about  twenty  paces  of  where  we  were  sitting,  and 
by  its  panting  seemed  pressed  by  the  hunters.  We 
had  not  much  time  to  reflect  upon  the  poor  animal's 
distress,  when  we  perceived  the  dogs  and  horsemen 
come  sweeping  along  at  some  distance  behind,  and 
making  the  very  path  it  had  taken.  I  was  instantly 
for  returning  with  my  family;  but  either  curiosity, 
or  surprise,  or  some  more  hidden  motive,  held 
my  wife  and  daughters  to  their  seats.  The 
huntsman,  who  rode  foremost,  passed  us  with  great 
swiftness,  followed  by  four  or  five  persons  more 
who  seemed  in  equal  haste.  At  last  a  young  gen- 
tleman of  a  more  genteel  appearance  than  the  rest 


40 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


came  forward,  and  for  a  while  regarding  us,  instead 
of  pursuing  the  chase,  stopped  short,  and  giving 
his  horse  to  a  servant  who  attended,  approached  us 
with  a  careless  superior  air.  He  seemed  to  want 
no  introduction,  but  was  going  to  salute  my  daugh- 
ters, as  one  certain  of" a  kind  reception;  but  they 
had  early  learned  the  lesson  of  looking  presumption 
out  of  countenance.  Upon  which  he  let  us  know 
his  name  was  Thornhill,  and  that  he  was  owner  of 
the  estate  that  lay  for  some  extent  around  us.  He 
again  therefore  offered  to  salute  the  female  part  of 
the  family,  and  such  was  the  power  of  fortune  and 
fine  clothes,  that  he  found  no  second  repulse.  As 
his  address,  though  confident,  was  easy,  we  soon 
became  more  familiar;  and  perceiving  musical 
instuments  lying  near,  he  begged  to  be  favoured 
with  a  song.  As  I  did  not  approve  of  such  dispro- 
portioned  acquaintances,  I  winked  upon  my  daugh- 
ters in  order  to  prevent  their  compliance ;  but  my 
hint  was  counteracted  by  one  from  their  mother ; 
so  that,  with  a  cheerful  air,  they  gave  us  a  favour- 
ite song  of  Dryden's.  Mr.  Thornhill  seemed  highly 
delighted  with  their  performance  and  choice,  and 
then  took  up  the  guitar  himself.  He  played  but 
very  indifferently ;  however,  my  eldest  daughter 
repaid  his  former  applause  with  interest,  and  as- 
sured him  that  his  tones  were  louder  than  even 
those  of  her  master.  At  this  compliment  he  bowed, 
which  she  returned  with  a  courtesy.     He  praised 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


41 


her  taste,  and  she  commended  his  understanding: 
an  age  could  not  have  made  them  better  acquainted, 
while  the  fond  mother,  too,  equally  happy,  insisted 
upon  her  landlord  stepping  in,  and  tasting  a  glass 
of  her  gooseberry.  The  whole  family  seemed 
earnest  to  please  him ;  my  girls  attempted  to  en- 
tertain him  with  topics  they  thought  most  modern, 
while  Moses,  on  the  contrary,  gave  him  a  question 
or  two  from  the  ancients,  for  which  he  had  the  sat- 
isfaction of  being  laughed  at :  my  little  ones  were 
no  less  busy,  and  fondly  stuck  close  to  the  stranger. 
All  my  endeavours  could  scarcely  keep  their  clirty 
fingers  from  handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on 
his  clothes,  and  lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket- 
holes,  to  see  what  was  there.  At  the  approach  of 
evening  he  took  leave ;  but  not  till  he  had  re- 
quested permission  to  renew  his  visit,  which,  as  he 
was  our  landlord,  we  most  readily  agreed  to. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a  council 
on  the  conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opinion, 
that  it  was  a  most  fortunate  hit ;  for  that  she  had 
known  even  stranger  things  at  last  brought  to  bear. 
She  hoped  again  to  see  the  day  in  which  wre  might 
hold  up  our  heads  with  the  best  of  them;  and  con- 
cluded, she  protested  she  could  see  no  reason  why 
the  two  Miss  Wrinkles  should  marry  great  fortunes, 
and  her  children  get  none.  As  this  last  argument 
was  directed  to  me,  I  protested  I  could  see  no  rea- 
son for  it  neither,  nor  why  Mr.  Simkins  got  the 


42 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


ten  thousand  pound  prize  in  the  lottery,  and  we 
sat  down  with  a  blank.  "  I  protest,  Charles/'  cried 
my  wife,  "  this  is  the  way  you  always  damp  my 
girls  and  me  when  we  are  in  spirits.  Tell  me, 
Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our  new 
visiter  ?  Don't  you  think  he  seemed  to  be  good- 
natured  ?"  "  Immensely  so  indeed,  mamma,"  re- 
plied she,  "  I  think  he  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon 
everything,  and  is  never  at  a  loss ;  and  the  more 
trifling  the  subject,  the  more  he  has  to  say." 
"  Yes,"  cried  Olivia,  "  he  is  well  enough  for  a  man ; 
but  for  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  him,  he  is  so 
extremely  impudent  and  familiar;  but  on  the  guitar 
he  is  shocking."  These  two  last  speeches  I  in- 
terpreted by  contraries.  I  found  by  this,  that 
Sophia  internally  despised,  as  much  as  Olivia  se- 
cretly admired  him.  "  Whatever  may  be  your 
opinions  of  him,  my  children,"  cried  I,  "  to  confess 
the  truth  he  has  not  prepossessed  me  in  his  favour. 
Disproportioned  friendships  ever  terminate  in  dis- 
gust ;  and  I  thought,  notwithstanding  all  his  ease, 
that  he  seemed  perfectly  sensible  of  the  distance 
between  us.  Let  us  keep  to  companions  of  our  own 
rank.  There  is  no  character  more  contemptible 
than  a  man  that  is  a  fortune-hunter ;  and  I  can  see 
no  reason  why  fortune-hunting  women  should  not 
be  contemptible  too.  Thus,  at  best,  we  shall  be 
contemptible  if  his  views  be  honourable ;  but  if 
they  be  otherwise !  I  should  shudder  to  think  of 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


43 


that.  It  is  true  I  have  no  apprehensions  from  the 
conduct  of  my  children;  but  I  think  there  are  some 
from  his  character."  I  would  have  proceeded,  but 
for  the  interruption  of  a  servant  from  the  'Squire, 
who  with  his  conpliments,  sent  us  a  side  of  venison, 
and  a  promise  to  dine  with  us  some  days  after. 
This  well-timed  present  pleaded  more  powerfully 
in  his  favour,  than  anything  I  had  to  say  could 
obviate.  I  therefore  continued  silent,  satisfied  with 
just  having  pointed  out  danger,  and  leaving  it  to 
their  own  discretion  to  avoid  it.  That  virtue  which 
requires  to  be  ever  guarded  is  scarcely  worth  the 
sentinel.  • 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Happiness  of  a  Country  Fire-side. 

As  we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with  some 
degree  of  warmth,  in  order  to  accommodate  mat- 
ters, it  was  universally  agreed,  that  we  should 
have  a  part  of  the  venison  for  supper :  and  the 
girls  undertook  the  task  with  alacrity.  "  I  am 
sorry,"  cried  I,  "  that  we  have  no  neighbour  or 
stranger  to  take  a  part  in  this  good  cheer :  feasts  of 
this  kind  acquire  a  double  relish  from  hospitality." 
"  Bless  me,"  cried  my  wife,  "  here  comes  our  good 
friend  Mr.  Burchell,  that  saved  our  Sophia,  and 
that  run  you  down  fairly  in  the  argument."  "Con* 


44 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


fute  me  in  argument,  child  !"  cried  I.  "  You  mis» 
take  there,  my  dear :  I  believe  there  are  but  few 
that  can  do  that :  I  never  dispute  your  abilities  at 
making  a  goose-pie,  and  I  beg  you'll  leave  argu- 
ment to  me."  As  I  spoke,  poor  Mr.  Burchell  en- 
tered the  house,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  family, 
who  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  while  little 
Dick  officiously  reached  him  a  chair. 

I  was  pleased  with  the  poor  man's  friendship  for 
two  reasons :  because  I  knew  that  he  wanted  mine, 
and  I  knew  him  to  be  friendly  as  far  as  he  was 
able.  He  was  known  in  our  neighbourhood  by  the 
character  of  the  poor  gentleman  that  would  do  no 
good  when  he  was  young,  though  he  was  not  yet 
thirty.  He  would  at  intervals  talk  with  great  good 
sense ;  but  in  general  he  was  fondest  of  the  com- 
pany of  children,  whom  he  used  to  call  harmless 
little  men.  He  was  famous,  I  found,  for  singing 
them  ballads,  and  telling  them  stories;  and  seldom 
went  out  without  something  in  his  pockets  for 
them ;  a  piece  of  gingerbread,  or  a  halfpenny 
whistle.  He  generally  came  for  a  few  days  into 
our  neighbourhood  once  a  year,  and  lived  upon  the 
neighbours'  hospitality.  He  sat  down  to  supper 
among  us,  and  my  wife  was  not  sparing  of  her 
gooseberry-wine.  The  tale  went  round  ;  he  sang 
us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the  story  of  the 
Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient 
Grissel,  the  adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


45 


Rosamond's  Bower.  Our  cock,  which  always  crew 
at  eleven,  now  told  us  it  was  time  for  repose ;  but 
an  unforeseen  difficulty  started  about  lodging  the 
stranger — all  our  beds  were  already  taken  up,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  send  him  to  the  next  ale-house. 
In  this  dilemma  little  Dick  offered  him  his  part  of 
the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses  would  let  him  lie 
with  him :  "  And  I,"  cried  Bill,  "  will  give  Mr. 
Burchell  my  part,  if  my  sisters  will  take  me  to 
theirs."  "  Well  done,  my  good  children/'  cried  I, 
"hospitality  is  one  of  the  first  Christian  duties. 
The  beast  retires  to  its  shelter,  and  the  bird  flies  to 
its  nest;  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge 
from  his  fellow-creature.  The  greatest  stranger  in 
this  world,  was  he  that  came  to  save  it.  He  never 
had  a  house,  as  if  willing  to  see  what  hospitality 
was  left  remaining  amongst  us.  Deborah,  my 
dear,"  cried  I  to  my  wife,  "  give  those  boys  a  lump 
of  sugar  each,  and  let  Dick's  be  the  largest,  because 
he  spoke  first." 

In  the  morning  early  I  called  out  my  whole 
family  to  help  at  saving  an  after-growth  of  hay, 
and  our  guest  offering  his  assistance,  he  was  accepted 
amongst  the  number.  Our  labours  went  on  lightly, 
w^e  turned  the  swath  to  the  wind.  I  went  fore- 
most, and  the  rest  followed  in  due  succession.  I 
could  not  avoid,  however,  observing  the  assiduity 
of  Mr.  Burchell  in  assisting  my  daughter  Sophia  in 
her  part  of  the  task.     When  he  ha,d  finished  his 


46 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


own,  he  would  join  in  her  s,  and  enter  into  a  close 
conversation :  but  I  had  too  good  an  opinion  of 
Sophia's  understanding,  and  was  too  well  convinced 
of  her  ambition,  to  be  under  any  uneasiness  from 
a  man  of  broken  fortune.  When  we  were  finished 
for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was  invited  as  on  the 
night  before ;  but  he  refused,  as  he  was  to  lie  that 
night  at  a  neighbour's  to  whose  child  he  was  carry- 
ing a  whistle.  When  gone,  our  conversation  at 
supper  turned  upon  our  late  unfortunate  guest. 

"  What  a  strong  instance,''  said  I,  "  is  that  poor 
man  of  the  miseries  attending  a  youth  of  levity 
and  extravagance.  He  by  no  means  wants  sense, 
which  only  serves  to  aggravate  his  former  folly. 
Poor  forlorn  creature,  where  are  now  the  revellers, 
the  flatterers,  that  he  could  once  inspire  and  com- 
mand !  Gone,  perhaps,  to  attend  the  bagnio  pander, 
grown  rich  by  his  extravagance.  They  once  praised 
him,  and  now  they  applaud  the  pander:  their 
former  raptures  at  his  wit  are  now  converted  into 
sarcasms  at  his  folly :  he  is  poor,  and  perhaps  de- 
serves poverty;  for  he  has  neither  the  ambition 
to  be  independent,  nor  the  skill  to  be  useful." 
Prompted  perhaps  by  some  secret  reasons,  I  de- 
livered this  observation  with  too  much  acrimony, 
which  my  Sophia  gently  reproved.  "  Whatsoever 
his  former  conduct  may  have  been,  papa,  his  cir- 
cumstances should  exempt  him  from  censure  now. 
His  present  indigence  is  a  sufficient  punishment 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


47 


for  former  folly ;  and  I  have  heard  my  papa  him- 
self say,  that  we  should  never  strike  an  unneces- 
sary blow  at  a  victim  over  whom  Providence  holds 
the  scourge  of  its  resentment."  "  You  are  right, 
Sophy,"  cried  my  son  Moses,  "  and  one  of  the  an- 
cients finely  represents  so  malicious  a  conduct,  by 
the  attempts  of  a  rustic  to  flay  Marsyas,  whose 
skin,  the  fable  tells  us,  had  been  wholly  stripped 
off  by  another.  Besides,  I  don't  know  if  this  poor 
man's  situation  is  so  bad  as  my  father  would  repre- 
sent it.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the  feelings  of 
others  by  what  we  might  feel  if  in  their  place. 
However  dark  the  habitation  of  the  mole  to  our 
eyes,  yet  the  animal  itself  finds  the  apartment  suf- 
ficiently lightsome.  And  to  confess  a  truth,  this 
man's  mind  seems  fitted  to  his  station :  for  I  never 
heard  any  one  more  sprightly  than  he  was  to-day, 
when  he  conversed  with  you."  This  was  said 
without  the  least  design,  however,  it  excited  a 
blush,  which  she  strove  to  cover  by  an  affected 
laugh,  assuring  him,  that  she  scarcely  took  any 
notice  of  what  he  said  to  her;  but  that  she  be- 
lieved he  might  once  have  been  a  very  fine  gentle- 
man. The  readiness  with  which  she  undertook 
to  vindicate  herself,  and  her  blushing,  were  symp- 
toms I  did  not  internally  approve ;  but  I  repressed 
my  suspicions. 

As  we  expected  our  landlord  next  day,  my  wife 
went  to  make  the  venison  pastry.   Moses  sat  read- 


48 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


ing,  while  I  taught  the  little  ones :  ray  daughters 
seemed  equally  busy  with  the  rest ;  and  I  observed 
them  for  a  good  while  cooking  something  over  the 
fire.  I  at  first  supposed  that  they  were  assisting 
their  mother;  but  little  Dick  informed  me  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  were  making  a  wash  for  the 
face.  Washes  of  all  kinds  I  had  a  natural  anti- 
pathy to;  for  I  knew  that  instead  of  mending  the 
complexion  they  spoiled  it.  I  therefore  approached 
my  chair  by  slow  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasping 
the  poker,  as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seemingly  by 
accident  overturned  the  whole  composition,  and  it 
was  too  late  to  begin  another. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Town-wit  described — The  dullest  fellows  may  learn  to  be  comicai 
for  a  night  or  two. 

When  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we  were  to 
entertain  our  young  landlord,  it  may  be  easily  sup- 
posed what  provisions  were  exhausted  to  make  an 
appearance.  It  may  also  be  conjectured  that  my 
wife  and  daughters  expanded  their  gayest  plumage 
upon  this  occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came  with  a 
couple  of  his  friends,  his  chaplain  and  feeder.  The 
servants,  who  were  numerous,  he  politely  ordered 
to  the  next  ale-house,  but  my  wife,  in  the  triumph 
of  her  heart,  insisted  on  entertaining  them  all;  for 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


49 


which,  by  the  by,  our  family  was  pinched  for  three 
weeks  after.  As  Mr.  Burchell  had  hinted  to  us 
the  day  before,  that  he  was  making  some  proposals 
of  marriage  to  Miss  Wilmot,  my  son  Georges 
former  mistress,  this  a  good  deal  damped  the 
heartiness  of  his  reception ;  but  accident  in  some 
measure  relieved  our  embarrassment;  for  one  of 
the  company  happening  to  mention  her  name,  Mr. 
Thornhill  observed  with  an  oath,  that  he  never 
knew  anything  more  absurd  than  calling  such  a 
fright  a  beauty :  "  For  strike  me  ugly,"  continued  he, 
"  if  I  should  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in  choosing 
my  mistress  by  the  information  of  a  lamp  under 
the  clock  at  St.  Dunstan's."  At  this  he  laughed, 
and  so  did  we  : — the  jests  of  the  rich  are  ever  suc- 
cessful. Olivia,  too,  could  not  avoid  whispering 
loud  enough  to  be  heard,  that  he  had  an  infinite 
fund  of  humour. 

After  dinner,  I  began  with  my  usual  toast,  the 
Church ;  for  this  I  was  thanked  by  the  chaplain, 
as  he  said  the  Church  was  the  only  mistress  of  his 
affections.  "  Come,  tell  us  honestly,  Frank,  said 
the  'Squire,  with  his  usual  archness,  "  suppose  the 
Church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in  lawn 
sleeves,  on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no 
lawn  about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be 
for  ?"  "  For  both,  to  be  sure,"  cried  the  chaplain. 
"  Eight  ,  Frank,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "  for  may  this 
glass  suffocate  me,  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth  all  the 


50 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


priestcraft  in  the  creation.  For  what  are  tithes 
and  tricks  but  an  imposition,  all  a  confounded  im* 
posture,  and  I  can  prove  it."  "  I  wish  you  would," 
cried  my  son  Moses  ;  "  and  I  think,"  continued  he, 
"that  I  should  be  able  to  answer  you."  Very 
well,  sir,"  cried  the  'Squire,  who  immediately 
smoked  him,  and  winking  on  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany to  prepare  us  for  the  sport,  "  if  you  are  for  a 
cool  argument  upon  that  subject,  I  am  ready  to 
accept  the  challenge.  And  first,  whether  are  you 
for  managing  it  analogically  or  dialogically  ?"  "  I 
am  for  managing  it  rationally,"  cried  Moses,  quite 
happy  at  being  permitted  to  dispute.  "  Good 
again,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "  and  firstly,  of  the  first : 
I  hope  you'll  not  deny,  that  whatever  is,  is.  If 
you  don't  grant  me  that,  I  can  go  no  farther." 
"  Why,"  returned  Moses,  "I  think  I  may  grant 
that,  and  make  the  best  of  it."  "  I  hope  too,"  re- 
turned the  other,  "  you'll  grant  that  a  part  is  less 
than  the  whole."  "  I  grant  that  too,"  cried  Moses, 
u  it  is  but  just  and  reasonable."  "I  hope,"  cried 
the  'Squire,  "  you'll  not  deny  that  the  two  angles 
of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones."  "  No- 
thing can  be  plainer,"  returned  t'other,  and  looked 
round  with  his  usual  importance.  "Very  well," 
cried  the  'Squire,  speaking  very  quick,  "  the  pre- 
mises being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to  observe,  that 
the  concatenation  of  self-existence,  proceeding  in  a 
reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produce  a  pro- 


YICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


51 


blematic  dialogism,  whicli  in  some  measure  proves 
that  the  essence  of  spirituality  may  be  referred  to 
the  second  predicable."  "  Hold,  hold/'  cried  the 
other,  "  I  deny  that :  Do  you  think  I  can  thus 
tamely  submit  to  such  heterodox  doctrines  ?" 
"  What !"  replied  the  'Squire,  as  if  in  a  passion, 
"  not  submit !  Answer  me  one  plain  question : 
Do  you  think  Aristotle  right  when  he-  says,  that 
relatives  are  related  V  "  Undoubtedly/'  replied  the 
other.  "  If  so,  then,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "  answer 
me  directly  to  what  I  propose :  Whether  do  you 
judge  the  analytical  investigation  of  the  first  part 
of  my  enthymem  deficient  secundum  quoad,  or 
quoad  minus,  and  give  me  your  reasons  :  give  me 
your  reasons  I  say,  directly."  u  I  protest,"  cried 
Moses,  "  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  the  force  of 
your  reasoning  :  but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one  simple 
proposition,  I  fancy  that  it  may  then  have  an  an- 
swer." "  0  sir,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "  I  am  your  most 
humble  servant ;  I  find  you  want  me  to  furnish  you 
with  argument  and  intellects  too.  No,  sir,  there  I 
protest  you  are  too  hard  for  me."  This  effectually 
raised  the  laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sat  the 
only  dismal  figure  in  a  group  of  merry  faces ;  nor 
did  he  offer  a  single  syllable  more  during  the  whole 
entertainment. 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it  had 
a  very  different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who  mistook  it 
for  humour,  though  but  a  mere  act  of  the  memory. 

4 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


52 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


She  thought  him  therefore  a  very  fine  gentleman: 
and  such  as  consider  what  powerful  ingredients  a 
good  figure,  fine  clothes,  and  fortune  are  in  that 
character,  will  easily  forgive  her.  Mr.  Thornhill, 
notwithstanding  his  real  ignorance,  talked  with 
ease,  and  could  expatiate  upon  the  common  topics 
of  conversation  with  fluency.  It  is  not  surprising 
then  that  such  talents  should  win  the  affections  of 
a  girl,  who  by  education  was  taught  to  value  an 
appearance  in  herself,  and  consequently  to  set  a 
value  upon  it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a  de- 
bate upon  the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  As  he 
directed  his  looks  and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it  was 
no  longer  doubted  but  that  she  was  the  object  that 
induced  him  to  be  our  visitor.  Nor  did  she  seem 
to  be  much  displeased  at  the  innocent  raillery  of 
her  brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even 
Deborah  herself  seemed  to  share  the  glory  of  the 
day,  and  exulted  in  her  daughter's  victory  as  if  it 
were  her  own.  "  And  now,  m}^  dear,"  cried  she  to 
me,  "  I'll  fairly  own,  that  it  was  I  that  instructed 
my  girls  to  encourage  our  landlord's  addresses.  I 
had  always  some  ambition,  and  you  now  see  that  I 
was  right;  for  who  knows  how  this  may  end?'' 
u  Ay,  who  knows  that  indeed  !"  answered  I,  with  a 
groan  :  "  For  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  it :  and  I 
wuld  have  been  better  pleased  with  one  that  was 
poor  and  honest,  than  this  fine  gentleman  with  his 


VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD.  53 

fortune  and  infidelity;  for  depend  on't,  if  he  be 
what  I  suspect  him,  no  free-thinker  shall  ever  have 
a  child  of  mine." 

u  Sure,  father,"  cried  Moses,  "  you  are  too  severe 
in  this ;  for  heaven  will  never  arraign  him  for  what 
he  thinks,  but  for  what  he  does.  Every  man  has 
a  thousand  vicious  thoughts,  which  arise  without 
his  power  to  suppress.  Thinking  freely  of  religion 
may  be  involuntary  with  this  gentleman ;  so  that 
allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet  as  he  is 
purely  passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be 
blamed  for  his  errors,  than  the  governor  of  a  city 
without  walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged  to  afford 
an  invading  enemy." 

"  True,  my  son,"  cried  I ;  "  but  if  the  governor 
invites  the  enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable. 
And  such  is  always  the  case  with  those  who  em- 
brace error.  The  vice  does  not  lie  in  assenting  to 
the  proofs  they  see ;  but  in  being  blind  to  many  of 
the  proofs  that  offer.  So  that,  though  our  erroneous 
opinions  be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet  as  we 
have  been  wilfully  corrupt,  or  very  negligent  in 
forming  them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice, 
or  contempt  for  our  folly." 

My  wife  now  kept  up  the  conversation,  though 
not  the  argument ;  she  observed,  that  several  very 
prudent  men  of  our  acquaintance  were  free-thinkers, 
and  made  very  good  husbands ;  and  she  knew  some 
sensible  girls  that  had  skill  enough  to  make  converts 


54 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


of  their  spouses :  "  And  who  knows,  my  dear," 
continued  she,  "what  Olivia  may  be  able  to  do. 
The  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  every  subject, 
and  to  my  knowledge  is  very  well  skilled  in  con- 
troversy." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have 
read  ?"  cried  ,1.  "  It  does  not  occur  to  me  that  I 
ever  put  such  books  in  her  hands :  you  certainly 
overrate  her  merit."  "  Indeed  papa,"  replied  Olivia, 
"  she  does  not ;  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  contro- 
versy. I  have  read  the  disputes  between  Thwackum 
and  Square ;  the  controversy  between  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage,  and  am  now  em- 
ployed in  reading  the  controversy  on  Religious 
Courtship."  u  Very  well,"  cried  I,  "  that's  a  good 
girl ;  I  find  you  are  perfectly  qualified  for  making 
converts ;  and  so  go  help  your  mother  to  make  the 
gooseberry  pie." 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

An  amour  which  promises  little  good  fortune,  yet  may  be  productive  of 

much. 

The  next  morning  we  were  again  visited  by  Mr. 
Burchell,  though  I  began,  for  certain  reasons,  to 
be  displeased  with  the  frequency  of  his  return ;  but 
f  could  not  refuse  him  my  company  and  my  fire- 
side. It  is  true,  his  labour  more  than  requited  his 
entertainment :  for  he  wrought  among  us  with  vigour, 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


55 


and  either  in  the  meadow  or  at  the  hay-rick  put 
himself  foremost.  Besides,  he  had  always  some- 
thing amusing  to  say  that  lessened  our  toil,  and  was 
at  once  so  out  of  the  way,  and  yet  so  sensible,  that 
I  loved,  laughed  at,  and  pitied  him.  My  only  dis- 
like arose  from  an  attachment  he  discovered  to  my 
daughter;  he  would,  in  a  jesting  manner,  call  her 
his  little  mistress,  and  when  he  bought  each  of  the 
girls  a  set  of  ribands,  hers  was  the  finest.  I  knew 
not  how,  but  he  every  day  seemed  to  become  more 
amiable,  his  wit  to  improve,  and  his  simplicity  to 
assume  the  superior  airs  of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sat,  or 
rather  reclined  round  a  temperate  repast,  our  cloth 
spread  upon  the  hay,  while  Mr.  Burchell  gave  cheer- 
fulness to  the  feast.  To  heighten  our  satisfaction, 
two  blackbirds  answered  each  other  from  opposite 
hedges,  the  familiar  red-breast  came  and  pecked  the 
crumbs  from  our  hands,  and  every  one  seemed 
but  the  echo  of  tranquility.  "I  never  sit  thus," 
says  Sophia,  "but  I  think  of  the  two  lovers  so 
sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who  were  struck  dead 
in  each  other  s  arms.  There  is  something  so  pa- 
thetic in  the  description,  that  I  have  read  it  a 
hundred  times  with  new  rapture."— "  In  my  opinion," 
cried  my  son,  "  the  finest  strokes  in  that  description 
are  much  below  those  in  the  Acis  and  Galatea  of 
Ovid.  The  Roman  poet  understands  the  use  of  con- 
trast  better  :  and  upon  that  figure  artfully  managed, 


56 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


all  strength  in  the  pathetic  depends." — "It  is  re- 
markable/' cried  Mr  Burchell,  "  that  both  the  poets 
you  mention  have  equally  contributed  to  introduce 
a  false  taste  into  their  respective  countries,  by  load- 
ing all  their  lines  with  epithet.  Men  of  little  genius 
found  them  most  easily  imitated  in  their  defects, 
and  English  poetry,  like  that  in  the  latter  empire 
of  Rome,  is  nothing  at  present  but  a  combination 
of  luxuriant  images,  without  plot  or  connexion ;  a 
string  of  epithets  that  improve  the  sound,  without 
carrying  on  the  sense.  But  perhaps,  madam,  while 
I  thus  reprehend  others,  you'll  think  it  just  that  I 
should  give  them  an  opportunity  to  retaliate,  and 
indeed  I  have  made  this  remark  only  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  introducing  to  the  company  a  ballad, 
which,  whatever  be  its  other  defects,  is,  I  think,  at 
least  free  from  those  I  have  mentioned." 


A  BALLAD. 

"  Tuen,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

"  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow; 
Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread 
Seem  length'ning  as  I  go." 

u  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  hermit  cries, 
"To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 
To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 
Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them : 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

u  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong; 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay : 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care ; 
The  wicket  opening  with  a  latch 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gayly  press'd,  and  smiled ; 

And,  skill' d  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  heart!*, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  oppress' d : 
"And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cno4 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

u  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

u  Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 
Are  trifling,  and  decay; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  w -ittt  is  friendship  but  a  name 
A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound 
The  modern  fair  one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said; 
But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray' d. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms: 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried; 

44  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

u  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

"  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 
A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine^ 
He  had  but  only  me. 

'*  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumber'd  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feign'd  a  flame. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


44  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd, 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

"  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale, 
He  carol'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

"  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined, 
Could  naught  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

"  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree 
With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but  woe  to  me  I 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch' d  my  heat£, 
I  triumph' d  in  his  pain : 

"  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 
He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 
In  secret,  where  he  died. 

"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


61 


"And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 
I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heaven  !"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast ; 
The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide— 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press' d. 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 
My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 
And  every  care  resign ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 
My  life — my  all  that's  mine? 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 
We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


While  this  ballad  was  reading,  Sophia  seemed  to 
mix  an  air  of  tenderness  with  her  approbation. 
But  our  tranquillity  was  soon  disturbed  by  the 
report  of  a  gun  just  by  us,  and  immediately  after 
a  man  was  seen  bursting  through  the  hedge,  to 
take  up  the  game  he  had  killed.  This  sportsman 
was  the  'Squire's  chaplain,  who  had  shot  one  of 
the  blackbirds  that  so  agreeably  entertained  us. 
So  loud  a  report  and  so  near,  startled  my  daugh- 
ters ;  and  I  could  perceive  that  Sophia  in  her  fright 


62 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


had  thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Burehell's  arms  for 
protection.  The  gentleman  came  up,  and  asked 
pardon  for  having  disturbed  us,  affirming  that  he 
was  ignorant  of  our  being  so  near.  He  therefore 
sat  down  by  my  youngest  daughter,  and  sports- 
man-like, offered  her  what  he  had  killed  that 
morning.  She  was  going  to  refuse,  but  a  private 
look  from  her  mother  soon  induced  her  to  correct 
the  mistake,  and  accept  his  present,  though  with 
some  reluctance.  My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered 
her  pride  in  a  whisper,  observing  that  Sophy  had 
made  a  conquest  of  the  chaplain,  as  well  as  her 
sister  had  of  the  'Squire.  I  suspected,  however, 
with  more  probability,  that  her  affections  were 
placed  upon  a  different  object.  The  chaplain's 
errand  was  to  inform  us,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had 
provided  music  and  refreshments,  and  intended 
that  night  giving  the  young  ladies  a  ball  by  moon- 
light, on  the  grassplot  before  our  door.  "  Nor  can 
I  deny,"  continued  he,  "  but  I  have  an  interest  in 
being  first  to  deliver  this  message,  as  I  expect  for 
my  reward  to  be  honoured  with  Miss  Sophy's  hand 
as  a  partner."  To  this  my  girl  replied,  that  she 
should  have  no  objection  if  she  could  do  it  with 
honour:  "But  here,"  continued  she,  "is  a  gentle- 
man," looking  at  Mr.  Burchell,  "  who  has  been  my 
companion  in  the  task  for  the  day,  and  it  is  fit  he 
should  share  its  amusements."  Mr.  Burchell  re- 
turned her  a  compliment  for  her  intentions :  but 


YICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


63 


resigned  her  up  to  the  chaplain,  adding  that  he  was 
to  go  that  night  five  miles,  being  invited  to  a  har- 
vest supper.  His  refusal  appeared  to  me  a  little 
extraordinary ;  nor  could  I  perceive  how  so  sensi- 
ble a  girl  as  my  youngest,  could  thus  prefer  a  man 
of  broken  fortunes  to  one  whose  expectations  were 
much  greater.  But  as  men  are  most  capable  of 
distinguishing  merit  in  women,  so  the  ladies  often 
form  the  truest  judgment  of  us.  The  two  sexes 
seem  placed  as  spies  upon  each  other,  and  are  fur- 
nished with  different  abilities,  adapted  for  mutual 
inspection. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Two  ladies  of  great  distinction  introduced — Superior  finery  ever  seema 
to  confer  superior  breeding. 

Mr.  Burchell  had  scarcely  taken  leave,  and 
Sophia  consented  to  dance  with  the  chaplain,  when 
my  little  ones  came  running  out  to  tell  us,  that  the 
'Squire  was  come  with  a  crowd  of  company.  Upon 
our  return,  we  found  our  landlord,  with  a  couple 
of  under  gentlemen  and  two  young  ladies  richly 
dressed,  whom  he  introduced  as  women  of  very 
great  distinction  and  fashion  from  town.  We  hap- 
pened not  to  have  chairs  enough  for  the  whole 
company ;  but  Mr.  Thornhill  immediately  proposed 
that  every  gentleman  should  sit  in  a  lady's  lap 


64 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


This  I  positively  objected  to,  notwithstanding  a 
look  of  disapprobation  from  my  wife.  Moses  was 
therefore  despatched  to  borrow  a  couple  of  chairs ; 
and  as  we  were  in  want  of  ladies  to  make  up  a  set 
at  country  dances,  the  two  gentlemen  went  with 
him  in  quest  of  a  couple  of  partners.  Chairs  and 
partners  were  soon  provided.  The  gentlemen  re- 
turned with  my  neighbour  Flamborough's  rosy 
daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots;  but  an 
unlucky  circumstance  was  not  adverted  to — though 
the  Miss  Flamboroughs  were  reckoned  the  very 
best  dancers  in  the  parish,  and  understood  the  jig 
and  round-about  to  perfection,  yet  they  were  totally 
unacquainted  with  country  dances.  This  at  first 
discomposed  us :  however,  after  a  little  shoving 
and  dragging,  they  at  least  went  merrily  on.  Our 
music  consisted  of  two  fiddles,  with  a  pipe  and 
tabor.  The  moon  shone  bright.  Mr.  Thornhill 
and  my  eldest  daughter  led  up  the  ball,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  spectators;  for  the  neigh- 
bours, hearing  what  was  going  forward,  came 
flocking  about  us.  My  girl  moved  with  so  much 
grace  and  vivacity,  that  my  wife  could  not  avoid 
discovering  the  pride  of  her  heart,  by  assuring  me 
that  though  the  little  chit  did  it  so  cleverly,  all  the 
steps  were  stolen  from  herself.  The  ladies  of  the 
town  strove  hard  to  be  equally  easy,  but  without 
success.  They  swam,  sprawled,  languished,  and 
frisked  ;  but  all  would  not  do  :  the  gazers  indeed 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


65 


owned  that  it  was  fine;  but  neighbour  Flambo- 
rough  observed,  that  Miss  Livy's  feet  seemed  as 
pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo.  After  the  dance  had 
continued  about  an  hour,  the  two  ladies  who  were 
apprehensive  of  catching  cold,  moved  to  break  up 
the  ball.  One  of  them,  I  thought,  expressed  her 
sentiments  upon  this  occasion  in  a  very  coarse 
manner,  when  she  observed,  that,  by  the  living 
jingo  she  was  all  of  a  mucJc  of  sweat.  Upon  our 
return  to  the  house,  we  found  a  very  elegant  cold 
supper,  which  Mr.  Thornhill  had  ordered  to  be 
brought  with  him.  The  conversation  at  this  time 
was  more  reserved  than  before.  The  two  ladies 
threw  my  girls  quite  into  the  shade;  for  they 
would  talk  of  nothing  but  high  life,  and  high-lived 
company;  with  other  fashionable  topics,  such  as 
pictures,  taste,  Shakspeare,  and  the  musical  glasses. 
'Tis  true  they  once  or  twice  mortified  us  sensibly 
by  slipping  out  an  oath ;  but  that  appeared  to  me 
as  the  surest  sympton  of  their  distinction  (though 
I  am  since  informed  that  swearing  is  perfectly  un- 
fashionable).  Their  finery,  however  threw  a  veil 
over  any  grossness  in  their  conversation.  My 
daughters  seemed  to  regard  their  superior  accom- 
plishments with  envy ;  and  what  appeared  amiss 
was  ascribed  to  tip-top  quality  breeding.  But  the 
condescension  of  the  ladies  was  still  superior  tc 
their  other  accomplishments.  One  of  them  ob- 
served, that  had  Miss  Olivia  seen  a  little  more  of 


66 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


the  world,  it  would  greatly  improve  her.  To  which 
the  other  added,  that  a  single  winter  in  town  would 
make  her  little  Sophia  quite  another  thing.  My 
wife  warmly  assented  to  both ;  adding,  that  there 
was  nothing  she  more  ardently  wished  than  to  give 
her  girls  a  single  winter's  polishing.  To  this  I 
could  not  help  replying,  that  their  breeding  was 
already  superior  to  their  fortune ;  and  that  greater 
refinement  would  only  serve  to  make  their  poverty 
ridiculous,  and  give  them  a  taste  for  pleasures  they 
had  no  right  to  possess. — u  And  what  pleasures," 
cried  Mr.  Thornhill,  "  do  they  not  deserve  to  pos- 
sess, who  have  so  much  in  their  power  to  bestow  ? 
As  for  my  part,"  continued  he,  "my  fortune  is 
pretty  large;  love,  liberty,  and  pleasure,  are  my 
maxims ;  but  curse  me  if  a  settlement  of  half  my 
estate  could  give  my  charming  Olivia  pleasure,  it 
should  be  hers ;  and  the  only  favour  I  would  ask 
in  return  would  be  to  add  myself  to  the  benefit."  I 
was  not  such  a  stranger  to  the  world  as  to  be  igno- 
rant that  this  was  the  fashionable  cant  to  disguise 
the  insolence  of  the  basest  proposal ;  but  I  made  an 
effort  to  suppress  my  resentment.  "  Sir,"  cried  I, 
"  the  family  which  you  now  condescend  to  favoui 
with  your  company,  has  been  bred  with  as  nice  a 
sense  of  honour  as  you.  Any  attempts  to  injure 
that,  may  be  attended  with  very  dangerous  conse- 
quences. Honour,  sir,  is  our  only  possession  at 
present,  and  of  that  last  treasure  we  must  be  par- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.  67 


ticularly  careful." — I  was  soon  sorry  for  the  warmth 
with  which  I  had  spoken  this,  when  the  young 
gentleman,  grasping  my  hand,  swore  he  commended 
my  spirit,  though  he  disapproved  my  suspicions. 
"  As  to  your  present  hint,"  continued  he,  "  I  protest 
nothing  was  farther  from  my  heart  than  such  a 
thought.  No,  by  all  that's  tempting,  the  virtue 
that  will  stand  a  regular  siege  was  never  to  my 
taste ;  for  all  my  amours  are  carried  by  a  coiup-de- 
main." 

The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  rest,  seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last 
stroke  of  freedom,  and  began  a  very  discreet  and 
serious  dialogue  upon  virtue ;  in  this  my  wife, 
the  chaplain,  and  I,  soon  joined:  and  the  'Squire 
himself  was  at  last  brought  to  confess  a  sense  of 
sorrow  for  his  former  excesses.  We  talked  of  the 
pleasures  of  temperance,  and  of  the  sunshine  in  the 
mind  unpolluted  with  guilt.  I  was  so  well  pleased, 
that  my  little  ones  were  kept  up  beyond  the 
usual  time  to  be  edified  by  so  much  good  conver- 
sation. Mr.  Thornhill  even  went  beyond  me,  and 
demanded  if  I  had  any  objections  to  giving  prayers. 
I  joyfully  embraced  the  proposal ;  and  in  this  man- 
ner the  night  was  passed  in  a  most  comfortable  way, 
till  at  last  the  company  began  to  think  of  return- 
ing. The  ladies  seemed  very  unwilling  to  part  with 
my  daughters,  for  whom  they  had  conceived  a  par- 
ticular affection,  and  joined  in  a  request  to  have  the 

5 


68  VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 

pleasure  of  their  company  home.  The  'Squire 
seconded  the  proposal,  and  my  wife  added  her  en- 
treaties ;  the  girls  too  looked  upon  me  as  if  they 
wished  me  to  go.  In  this  perplexity  I  made  two 
or  three  excuses,  which  my  daughters  as  readily 
removed ;  so  that  at  last  I  was  obliged  to  give  a 
peremptory  refusal;  for  which  we  had  nothing  but 
sullen  looks  and  short  answers  the  whole  day 
ensuing. 


chapter  x. 

The  family  endeavours  to  cope  with  their  betters. — The  miseries  cf  the 
poor  when  they  attempt  to  appear  above  their  circumstances. 

I  now  began  to  find,  that  all  my  long  and  painful 
lectures  upon  temperance,  simplicity  and  content- 
ment, were  entirely  disregarded.  The  distinctions 
lately  paid  us  by  our  betters  awaked  that  pride 
which  I  had  laid  asleep  but  not  removed.  Our 
windows,  again,  as  formerly,  were  filled  with 
washes  for  the  neck  and  face.  The  sun  was 
dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin  without  doors,  and 
the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion  within.  My 
wife  observed,  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt  her 
daughters  eyes,  that  working  after  dinner  would 
redden  their  noses,  and  s;he  convinced  me  that  the 
hands  never  looked  so  white  as  when  they  did 
nothing.    Instead,  therefore,  of  finishing  George's 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


69 


shirts,  we  now  had  them  new-modelling  their  old 
gauses,  or  flourishing  upon  catgut.  The  poor  Miss 
Flamboroughs,  their  former  gay  companions,  were 
cast  off  as  mean  acquaintance,  and  the  whole  con- 
versation ran  upon  high  life  and  high-lived  company, 
with  pictures,  taste,  Shakspeare,  and  the  musical 
glasses. 

But  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a  for- 
tune-telling gipsy  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect  sub- 
limity. The  twany  sibyl  no  sooner  appeared,  than 
my  girls  came  running  to  me  for  a  shilling  a-piece  to 
cross  her  hand  with  silver.  To  say  the  truth  I  was 
tired  of  being  always  wise,  and  could  not  help  grati- 
fying their  request,  because  I  love  to  see  them  happy. 
I  gave  each  of  them  a  shilling;  though  for  the 
honour  of  the  family  it  must  be  observed,  that  they 
never  went  without  money  themselves,  as  my  wife 
nlways  generously  let  them  have  a  guinea  each,  to 
fceep  in  their  pockets,  but  with  strict  injunctions 
never  to  change  it.  After  they  had  been  closeted 
up  with  the  fortune-teller  for  some  time,  I  knew  by 
their  looks,  upon  their  returning,  that  they  had 
been  promised  something  great. — "  Well,  my  girls, 
how  have  you  sped  ?  Tell  me,  Livy,  has  the  for- 
tune-teller given  thee  a  pennyworth  ?" — "  I  protest, 
papa,"  says  the  girl,  "  I  believe  she  deals  with  some- 
body that's  not  right;  for  she  positively  declared 
that  I  am  to  be  married  to  a  'squire  in  less  than  a 
twelve-month  !" — "  Well  now,  Sophy,  my  child,* 


70 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


said  I,  "  and  what  sort  of  a  husband  are  you  to 
have  ?"  "Sir,"  replied  she,  "  I  am  to  have  a  lord 
soon  after  my  sister  has   married  the  'squire." 

"  How  !"  cried  I,  "  is  that  all  your  are  to  have 
for  your  two  shillings  ?  Only  a  lord  and  a  'squire 
for  two  shillings  !  You  fools,  I  could  have  promised 
you  a  prince  and  a  nabob  for  half  the  money." 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended 
with  very  serious  effects ;  we  now  began  to  think 
ourselves  designed  by  the  stars  to  something  exalted, 
and  already  anticipated  our  future  grandeur. 

It  has  been  a  thousand  times  observed,  and  I 
must  observe  it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass 
with  happy  prospects  in  view,  are  more  pleasing 
than  those  crowned  with  fruition.  In  the  first  case, 
we  cook  the  dish  to  our  own  appetite  ;  in  the  latter, 
nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It  is  impossible  to  repeat 
the  train  of  agreeable  reveries  we  called  up  for  our 
entertainment.  We  looked  upon  our  fortunes  as 
once  more  rising ;  and  as  the  whole  parish  asserted 
that  the  'squire  was  in  love  with  my  daughter,  she 
was  actually  so  with  him:  for  they  persuaded  her 
into  the  passion.  In  this  agreeable  interval,  my 
wife  had  the  most  lucky  dreams  in  the  world,  which 
she  took  care  to  tell  us  every  morning  with  great 
solemnity  and  exactness.  It  was  one  night  a  coffin 
and  cross-bones,  the  sign  of  an  approaching  wedding; 
at  another  time  she  imagined  her  daughter's  pockets 
filled  with  farthings,  a  certain  sign  of  their  being 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


71 


shortly  s'uffed  with  gold.  The  girls  themselves  had 
their  omen?.  They  felt  strange  kisses  on  their 
lips ;  they  saw  rings  in  the  candle,  purses  bounced 
from  the  fire,  and  true  love-knots  lurked  in  the  bot 
torn  of  every  tea  cup. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card 
from  the  town  ladies  ;  in  which,  with  their  compli- 
ments, they  hoped  to  see  all  our  family  at  church 
the  Sunday  following.  All  Saturday  morning,  I 
could  perceive,  in  consequence  of  this,  my  wife  and 
daughters  in  close  conference  together,  and  now 
and  then  glancing  at  me  with  looks  that  betrayed 
a  latent  plot.  To  be  sincere,  I  had  strong  suspi- 
cions that  some  absurd  proposal  was  preparing  for 
appearing  with  splendour  the  next  day.  In  the 
evening  they  began  their  operations  in  a  very  regu- 
lar manner,  and  my  wife  undertook  to  conduct  the 
siege.  After  tea,  when  I  seemed  in  spirits,  she  be- 
gan thus  : — "  I  fancy,  Charles,  my  dear,  we  shall 
have  a  great  deal  of  good  company  at  our  church 
to-morrow." — "  Perhaps  we  may,  my  dear,"  returned 
I,  "  though  you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about 
that,  you  shall  have  a  sermon  whether  there  be  or 
not." — "That  is  what  I  expect,"  returned  she;  "but 
I  think,  my  dear,  wre  ought  to  appear  there  as  de- 
cently as  possible,  for  who  knowrs  what  may  hap- 
pen V  "  Your  precautions,"  replied  I,  "are  highly 
commendable.  A  decent  behaviour  and  appearance 
m  church  is  what  charms  me.    We  should  be  de* 


72 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


vout  and  humble,  cheerful  and  serene."  "  Yes/ 
Lried  she,  "I  know  that;  but  I  mean  we  should  go 
there  in  as  proper  a  manner  as  possible ;  not  alto- 
gether like  the  scrubs  about  us."  "  You  are  quite 
right,  my  dear,"  returned  I,  "  and  I  was  going  to 
make  the  very  same  proposal.  The  proper  manner 
of  going  is  to  go  there  as  early  as  possible,  to  have 
time  for  meditation  before  the  service  begins." 
"  Phoo,  Charles,"  interrupted  she,  "  all  that  is  very 
true ;  but  not  what  I  would  be  at.  I  mean  we 
should  go  there  genteely.  You  know  the  church 
is  two  miles  off,  and  I  protest  I  don't  like  to  see 
my  daughters  trudging  up  to  their  pew  all  blowzed 
and  red  with  walking,  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  had  been  winners  at  a  smock-race.  Now, 
my  dear,  my  proposal  is  this :  there  are  two  plough 
horses,  the  colt  that  has  been  in  our  family  these 
nine  years,  and  his  companion  Blackberry,  that  has 
scarcely  done  an  earthly  thing  for  this  month  past. 
They  are  both  grown  fat  and  lazy.  Why  should 
not  they  do  something  as  well  as  we  ?  And  let  me 
tell  you,  when  Moses  has  trimmed  them  a  little, 
they  will  cut  a  very  tolerable  figure." 

To  this  proposal  I  objected,  that  walking  would 
be  twenty  times  more  genteel  than  such  a  paltry 
conveyance,  as  Blackberry  was  wall-eyed,  and  the 
colt  wanted  a  tail;  that  they  had  never  been  broke 
to  the  rein,  but  had  a  hundred  vicious  tricks ;  and 
that  we  had  but  one  saddle  and  pillion  in  the  whole 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


73 


house.  All  these  objections,  however,  were  over- 
ruled ;  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  comply.  The  next 
morning  I  perceived  them  not  a  little  busy  in  col- 
lecting such  materials  as  might  be  necessary  for 
the  expedition ;  but  as  I  found  it  would  be  a  business 
of  time,  I  walked  on  to  the  church  before,  and  they 
promised  speedily  to  follow.  I  waited  near  an 
hour  in  the  reading-desk  for  their  arrival ;  but  not 
finding  them  come  as  expected,  I  was  obliged  to 
oegin,  and  went  through  the  service,  not  without 
some  uneasiness  at  finding  them  absent.  This  was 
increased  when  all  was  finished,  and  no  appearance 
of  the  family.  I  therefore  walked  back  by  the 
horse-way,  which  was  five  miles  round,  though  the 
foot-way  was  but  two,  and  when  got  about  half 
way  home,  perceived  the  procession  marching 
6lowly  forward  towards  the  church ;  my  son,  my 
wife,  and  the  two  little  ones,  exalted  upon  one 
horse,  and  my  two  daughters  upon  the  other.  I 
demanded  the  cause  of  their  delay  ;  but  I  soon  found 
by  their  looks  they  had  met  with  a  thousand  mis- 
fortunes on  the  road.  The  horses  had  at  first 
refused  to  move  from  the  door,  till  Mr.  Burchell 
was  kind  enough  to  beat  them  forward  for  about 
two  hundred  yards  with  his  cudgel.  Next,  the 
straps  of  my  wife's  pillion  broke  down,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  stop  to  repair  them  before  they 
could  proceed.  After  that,  one  of  the  horses  took 
it  into  his  head  to  stand  still,  and  neither  blows 


74 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


nor  entreaties  could  prevail  with  him  to  proceed 
He  was  just  recovering  from  this  dismal  situation 
when  I  found  them ;  but  perceiving  everything 
safe,  I  own  their  present  mortification  did  not 
much  displease  me,  as  it  would  give  me  many 
opportunities  of  future  triumph,  and  teach  my 
daughters  more  humility. 

CHAPTER  X 
The  family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  heads. 

Michaelmas  eve  happening  on  the  next  day,  we 
were  invited  to  burn  nuts  and  play  tricks  at  neigh- 
bour Flamborough's.  Our  late  mortifications  had 
humbled  us  a  little,  or  it  is  probable  we  might  have 
rejected  such  an  invitation  with  contempt:  however, 
we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  happy.  Our  honest 
neighbour  s  goose  and  dumplings  were  fine,  and  the 
lamb's  wool,  even  in  the  opinion  of  my  wife,  who 
was  a  connoisseur,  was  excellent.  It  is  true,  his 
manner  of  telling  stories  was  not  quite  so  well. 
They  were  very  long,  and  very  dull,  and  all  about 
himself,  and  we  had  laughed  at  them  ten  times 
before  :  however,  we  were  kind  enough  to  laugh  at 
them  once  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  always 
fond  of  seeing  some  innocent  amusement  going  for- 
ward, and  set  the  boys  and  girls  to  blind  man's  buff. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


75 


My  wife  too  was  persuaded  to  join  in  the  diversion, 
and  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  think  she  was  not  yet 
too  old.  In  the  meantime,  my  neighbour  and  1 
looked  on,  laughed  at  every  feat,  and  praised  our 
own  dexterity  when  we  were  young.  Hot  cockles 
succeeded  next,  questions  and  commands  followed 
that,  and  last  of  all  they  sat  down  to  hunt  the 
slipper.  As  every  person  may  not  be  acquainted 
with  this  primeval  pastime,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
observe,  that  the  company  at  this  play  plant  them- 
selves in  a  ring  upon  the  ground,  all  except  one, 
who  stands  in  the  middle,  whose  business  it  is  to 
catch  a  shoe,  which  the  company  shove  about  under 
their  hams  from  one  to  another,  something  like  a 
weaver's  shuttle.  As  it  is  impossible,  in  this  case, 
for  the  lady  who  is  up  to  face  all  the  company  at 
once,  the  great  beauty  of  the  play  lies  in  hitting 
her  a  thump  with  the  heel  of  the  shoe  on  that  side 
least  capable  of  making  a  defence.  It  was  in  this 
manner  that  my  eldest  daughter  was  hemmed  in, 
and  thumped  about,  all  blowzed,  in  spirits,  and 
bawling  for  fair  play,  with  a  voice  that  might  deafen 
a  ballad-singer,  when,  confusion  on  confusion  !  who 
should  enter  the  room  but  our  two  great  acquaint- 
ances from  town,  Lady  Blarney  and  Miss  Carolina 
Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs !  Description  would 
but  beggar,  therefore  it  is  unnecessary  to  describe 
this  new  mortification.  Death !  to  be  seen  by 
ladies  of  such  high  breeding  in  such  vulgar  atti- 


76 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


tudes !  Nothing  better  could  ensue  from  such  a 
vulgar  play  of  Mr.  Flamborough's  proposing.  We 
seemed  struck  to  the  ground  for  some  time,  as  if 
actually  petrified  with  amazement. 

The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us, 
and  finding  us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as 
they  were  uneasy  to  know  what  accident  could  have 
kept  us  from  church  the  day  before.  Olivia  under- 
took to  be  our  prolocutor,  and  delivered  the  whole 
in  a  summary  way,  only  saying,  "  We  were  thrown 
from  our  horses."  At  which  account  the  ladies 
were  greatly  concerned ;  but  being  told  the  family 
received  no  hurt,  they  were  extremely  glad :  but 
being  informed  that  we  were  almost  killed  by  the 
fright,  they  were  vastly  sorry;  but  hearing  that  . 
we  had  a  very  good  night,  they  were  extremely 
glad  again.  Nothing  could  exceed  their  complai- 
sance to  my  daughters ;  their  professions  the  last 
evening  were  warm,  but  now  they  were  ardent. 
They  protested  a  desire  of  having  a  more  lasting 
acquaintance.  Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  at- 
tached to  Olivia;  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  (I  love  to  give  the  whole  name)  took  a 
greater  fancy  to  her  sister.  They  supported  the 
conversation  between  themselves,  while  my  daugh- 
ters sat  silent,  admiring  their  exalted  breeding. 
But  as  every  reader,  however  beggarly  himself,  is 
fond  of  high  lived  dialogues,  with  anecdotes  of 
Lords,  Ladies,  and  Knights  of  the  Garter,  I  must 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


77 


beg  leave  to  give  him  the  concluding  part  of  the 
present  conversation. 

"  All  that  I  know  of  the  matter/'  cried  Miss 
Skeggs,  "  is  this,  that  it  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not 
be  true  :  but  this  I  can  assure  your  ladyship,  that 
the  whole  rout  was  in  amaze ;  his  lordship  turned 
all  manner  of  colours,  my  lady  fell  into  a  sound, 
but  Sir  Tonkyn,  drawing  his  sword,  swore  he  was 
hers  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood." 

"  Well,"  replied  our  peeress,  "  this  I  can  say,  that 
the  duchess  never  told  me  a  syllable  of  the  matter, 
and  I  believe  her  grace  would  keep  nothing  a  secret 
from  me.  This  you  may  depend  upon  as  a  fact,  that 
the  next  morning  my  lord  duke  cried  out  three 
times  to  his  valet  de  cliambre,  Jernigan,  Jernigan, 
Jernigan,  bring  me  my  garters." 

But  previously  I  should  have  mentioned  the  very 
impolite  behaviour  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  during 
this  discourse,  sat  with  his  face  turned  to  the  fire, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  every  sentence  would  cry 
out  fudge!  an  expression  which  displeased  us  all, 
and  in  some  measure  damped  the  rising  spirit  of  the 
conversation. 

"  Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,"  continued  out  peer- 
ess, "  there  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of  verses 
that  Dr.  Burdock  made  upon  the  occasion."  Fudge! 

"  I  am  surprised  at  that,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs ;  "  for 
he  seldom  leaves  any  thing  out,  as  he  writes  only 
for  his  own  amusement.  But  can  your  ladyship 
favour  me  with  a  sight  of  them  ?"    Fudge  ! 


78 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  My  dear  creature,"  replied  our  peeress,  "  do  you 
think  I  carry  such  things  about  me  ?  Though  they 
are  very  fine,  to  be  sure,  and  I  think  myself  some- 
thing of  a  judge ;  at  least  I  know  what  pleases 
myself.  Indeed  I  was  ever  an  admirer  of  all  Dr. 
Burdock's  little  pieces :  for,  except  what  he  does, 
and  our  dear  countess  at  Hanover-square,  there's 
nothing  comes  out  but  the  most  lowest  stuff  in  na- 
ture; not  a  bit  of  high  life  among  them."  Fudge! 

"  Your  ladyship  should  except,"  says  t'other, 
"your  own  things  in  the  Lady's  Magazine.  I  hope 
you'll  say  there's  nothing  low-lived  there  ?  But  I 
suppose  we  are  to  have  no  more  from  that  quarter  ?" 
Fudge ! 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  says  the  lady,  you  know  my 
reader  and  companion  has  left  me,  to  be  married 
to  Captain  Roach,  and  as  my  poor  eyes  wont  suffer 
me  to  write  myself,  I  have  been  for  some  time 
looking  out  for  another.  A  proper  person  is  no 
easy  matter  to  find,  and  to  be  sure  thirty  pounds  a 
year  is  a  small  stipend  for  a  well-bred  girl  of  cha- 
racter, that  can  read,  write,  and  behave  in  company; 
as  for  the  chits  about  town,  there  is  no  bearing 
them  about  one."    Fudge  ! 

"  That  I  know,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "  by  experi- 
ence. For  of  the  three  companions  I  had  this  last 
half-year,  one  of  them  refused  to  do  plain-work  an 
hour  in  a  day;  another  thought  twenty-five  guineas 
a  year  too  small  a  salary,  and  I  was  obliged  to  send 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


79 


&v\ray  the  third,  because  I  suspected  an  intrigue 
^ith  the  chaplain.  Virtue,  my  dear  Lady  Blarney, 
virtue  is  worth  any  price;  but  where  is  that  to  be 
found !"    Fudge ! 

My  wife  had  been  for  a  long  time  all  attention 
to  this  discourse ;  but  was  particularly  struck  with 
the  latter  part  of  it.  Thirty  pounds  and  twenty- 
five  guineas  a  year,  made  fifty-six  pounds  five 
shillings  English  money,  all  which  was  in  a  manner 
going  a-begging,  and  might  easily  be  secured  in  the 
family.  She  for  a  moment  studied  my  looks  for 
approbation ;  and,  to  own  a  truth,  I  was  of  opinion 
that  two  such  places  would  fit  our  two  daughters 
exactly.  Besides,  if  the  'Squire  had  any  real  affec- 
tion for  my  eldest  daughter,  this  would  be  the  way 
to  make  her  every  way  qualified  for  her  fortune. 
My  wife  therefore  was  resolved  that  we  should  not 
be  deprived  of  such  advantages  for  want  of  assu- 
rance, and  undertook  to  harangue  for  the  family. 
"  I  hope,"  cried  she,  "  your  ladyships  will  pardon 
my  present  presumption.  It  is  true,  we  have  no 
right  to  pretend  to  such  favours :  but  yet  it  is  natu- 
ral for  me  to  wish  putting  my  children  forward  in 
the  world  And  I  will  be  bold  to  say  my  two  girls 
have  had  a  pretty  good  education  and  capacity,  at 
least  the  country  can't  show  better.  They  can 
read,  write,  and  cast  accounts ;  they  understand 
their  needle,  broadstitch,  cross  and  change,  and  all 
manner  of  plain-work ;  they  can  pink,  point,  and 


80 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


frill,  and  know  something  of  music;  they  can  do 
up  small  clothes;  work  upon  catgut:  my  eldest  can 
cut  paper,  and  my  youngest  has  a  very  pretty  man- 
ner of  telling  fortunes  upon  the  cards."  Fudge! 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  elo- 
quence, the  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a  few 
minutes  in  silence,  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  import- 
ance. At  last  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  condescended  to  observe,  that  the  young 
ladies,  from  the  opinion  she  could  form  of  them 
from  so  slight  an  acquaintance,  seemed  very  fit  for 
such  employments :  "  But  a  thing  of  this  kind, 
madam,"  cried  she,  addressing  my  spouse,  "requires 
a  thorough  examination  into  characters,  and  a  more 
perfect  knowledge  of  each  other.  Not,  madam," 
continued  she,  "that  I  in  the  least  suspect  the 
young  ladies'  virtue,  prudence  and  discretion ;  but 
there  is  a  form  in  these  things,  madam,  there  is  a 
form." 

My  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much, 
observing  that  she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious 
herself;  but  referred  her  to  all  the  neigbours  for  a 
character  :  but  this  our  peeress  declined  as  unneces- 
sary, alleging  that  her  cousin  Thornhill's  recom- 
mendation would  be  sufficient;  and  upon  this  we 
rested  our  petition. 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


81 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  family  of  Wakefield — Mortifr 
cations  are  often  more  painful  than  real  calamities. 

When  we  were  returned  home  the  night  was 
dedicated  to  schemes  of  future  conquest.  Deborah 
exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjecturing  which  of  the 
two  girls  was  likely  to  have  the  best  place,  and 
most  opportunities  of  seeing  good  company.  The 
only  obstacle  to  our  preferment  was  in  obtaining 
the  'Squire's  recommendation  ;  but  he  had  already 
shown  us  too  many  instances  of  his  friendship  to 
doubt  of  it  now.  Even  in  bed  my  wife  kept  up 
the  usual  theme  :  "  Well,  faith,  my  dear  Charles, 
between  ourselves,  I  think  we  have  made  an  excel- 
lent day's  work  of  it." — "  Pretty  well,"  cried  I,  not 
knowing  what  to  say.  "  What !  only  pretty  well !" 
returned  she.  "  I  think  it  is  very  well.  Suppose 
the  girls  should  come  to  make  acquaintances  of 
taste  in  town  !  This  I  am  assured  of,  that  London 
is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  all  manner  of 
husbands.  Besides,  my  dear,  stranger  things  happen 
every  day  :  and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so  taken 
with  my  daughters,  what  will  not  men  of  quality 
be  ? — Eritre  nous,  I  protest  I  like  my  Lady  Blarney 
vastly,  so  very  obliging.  However,  Miss  Carolina 
Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  has  my  warm  heart 


82 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


But  yet  when  they  came  to  talk  of  places  in  town, 
you  saw  at  once  how  I  nailed  them.  Tell  me,  my 
dear,  don't  you  think  I  did  for  my  children  there?" 
"  Ay/'  returned  I,  not  knowing  well  what  to  think 
of  the  matter,  "  Heaven  grant  they  may  be  both 
the  better  for  it  this  day  three  months!"  This  was 
one  of  those  observations  I  usually  made  to  impress 
my  wife  with  an  opinion  of  my  sagacity  :  for  if  the 
girls  succeeded,  then  it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled  ; 
but  if  any  thing  unfortunate  ensued,  then  it  might 
be  looked  upon  as  a  prophecy.  All  this  conversa- 
tion, however,  was  only  preparatory'  to  another 
scheme,  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as  much.  This  was 
nothing  less  than  that,  as  we  were  now  to  hold  up 
our  heads  a  little  higher  in  the  world,  it  would  be 
proper  to  sell  the  colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a 
neighbouring  fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would 
carry  single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make 
a  pretty  appearance  at  church  or  upon  a  visit.  This 
at  first  I  opposed  stoutly ;  but  it  was  as  stoutly  de- 
fended. However,  as  I  weakened,  my  antagonist 
gained  strength,  till  at  last  it  was  resolved  to  part 
with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had 
intentions  of  going  myself;  but  my  wife  persuaded 
me  that  I  had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail 
upon  her  to  permit  me  from  home.  "  No,  my  dear," 
said  she  "  our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and  can 
buy  and  sell  to  very  good  advantage  :  you  know 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


83 


all  our  great  bargains  are  of  his  purchasing.  He 
always  stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually  tires 
them  till  he  gets  a  bargain." 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I 
was  willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this  commis- 
sion ;  and  the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sisters 
mighty  busy  in  fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair :  trim- 
ming his  hair,  brushing  his  buckles,  and  cocking 
his  hat  with  pins.  The  business  of  the  toilet  being 
over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him 
mounted  upon  the  colt,  with  a  deal  box  before  him 
to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He  had  on  a  coat  made 
of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and  lightning,  which, 
though  grown  too  short,  was  much  too  good  to  be 
thrown  away.  His  waistcoat  was  of  gosling  green, 
and  his  sisters  had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  black 
riband.  We  all  followed  him  several  paces  from 
the  door,  bawling  after  him  good  luck,  good  luck, 
till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarcely  gone  when  Mr.  ThornhilFs  but- 
ler came  to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune, 
saying,  that  he  overheard  his  young  master  mention 
our  names  writh  great  commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone. 
Another  footman  from  the  same  family  followed, 
with  a  card  for  my  daughters,  importing  that  the 
two  ladies  had  received  such  pleasing  accounts  from 
Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all,  that,  after  a  few  previous  in- 
quiries, they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  "  Ay/; 

6 


84 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


cried  my  wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to 
get  into  the  families  of  the  great ;  but  when  one 
once  gets  in,  then,  as  Moses  says,  one  may  go  to 
sleep."  To  this  piece  of  humor,  for  she  intended 
it  for  wit,  my  daughters  assented  with  a  loud  laugh 
of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was  her  satisfaction  at 
this  message,  that  she  actually  put  her  hand  in  her 
pocket,  and  gave  the  messenger  seven-pence  half- 
penny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that 
came  was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair. 
He  brought  my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  ginger- 
bread each,  which  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for 
them  and  give  them  by  letters  at  a  time.  He 
brought  my  daughters  also  a  couple  of  boxes,  in 
which  they  might  keep  wafers,  snuff,  patches,  or 
even  money,  when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usu- 
ally fond  of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as  being  the  most 
lucky;  but  this  by  the  by.  We  had  still  a  regard 
for  Mr.  Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  behaviour 
was  in  some  measure  displeasing :  nor  could  we 
now  avoid  communicating  our  happiness  to  him, 
and  asking  his  advice ;  although  we  seldom  followed 
advice,  we  were  all  ready  enough  to  ask  it.  When 
he  read  the  note  from  the  two  ladies,  he  shook  his 
head,  and  observed,  that  an  affair  of  this  sort  de- 
manded the  utmost  circumspection.  This  air  of 
diffidence  highly  displeased  my  wife.  "  I  never 
doubted,  sir,"  cried  she,  "your  readiness  to  be 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


85 


against  my  daughters  and  me.  You  have  more 
circumspection  than  is  wanted.  However,  I  fancy 
when  we  come  to  ask  advice,  we  will  apply  to  per- 
sons who  seem  to  have  made  use  of  it  themselves." 
— "  Whatever  my  own  conduct  may  have  been, 
madam/'  replied  he,  "  is  not  the  present  question ; 
though  as  I  have  made  no  use  of  advice  myself,  I 
should  in  conscience  give  it  to  those  who  will." — 
As  I  was  apprehensive  that  this  answer  might  draw 
on  a  repartee,  making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted 
in  wit,  I  changed  the  subject,  by  seeming  to  wonder 
what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the  fair,  as  it 
was  now  almost  nightfall. — Never  mind  our  son," 
cried  my  wife,  "  depend  upon  it  he  knows  what  he 
is  about.  I'll  warrant  we'll  never  see  him  sell  his 
hen  of  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen  him  buy  such 
bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell  you  a  good 
story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  split  your  sides 
a  laughing. — But  as  I  live,  yonder  comes  Moses, 
without  a  horse,  and  the  box  at  his  back." 

As  she  spoke  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and 
sweating  under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strap- 
ped round  his  shoulders  like  a  pedlar. — "  Welcome, 
welcome,  Moses;  well,  my  boy,  what  have  you 
brought  us  from  the  fair?" — "I  have  brought  you 
myself,"  cried  Moses,  with  a  sly  look,  and  resting 
the  box  on  the  dresser." — "  Ah,  Moses,"  cried  my 
wife,  "that  we  know;  but  where  is  the  horse?"  "I 
have  sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "  for  three  pounds  five 


86 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


shillings  and  two  pence." — "  Well  done,  my  good 
boy/'  returned  she ;  "  I  knew  you  would  touch  them 
off.  Between  ourselves,  three  pounds  five  shillings 
and  two  pence  is  no  bad  day's  work.  Come  let  us 
have  it  then." — "  I  have  brought  back  no  money," 
cried  Moses  again.  "  I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a 
bargain,  and  here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from 
his  breast ;  "  here  they  are ;  a  gross  of  green  spec- 
tacles, with  silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases." — "  A 
gross  of  green  spectacles !"  repeated  my  wife  in  a 
faint  voice.  "  And  you  have  parted  with  the  colt, 
and  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  gross  of  paltry 
green  spectacles  !" — "  Dear  mother,"  cried  the  boy, 
"  why  wont  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a 
dead  bargain,  or  I  should  not  have  bought  them. 
The  silver  rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the  money." 
"  A  fig  for  the  silver  rims,"  cried  my  wife  in  a  pas- 
sion :  I  dare  swear  they  won't  sell  for  above  half 
the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken  silver,  five  shillings 
an  ounce." — "  You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness," 
cried  I,  "  about  selling  the  rims,  for  they  are  not 
worth  sixpence,  for  I  perceive  they  are  only  copper 
varnished  over."  "  What,"  cried  my  wife,  "  not 
silver !  the  rims  not  silver  !"  "  No,"  cried  I,  "no 
m3re  silver  than  your  saucepan." — "  And  so,"  re- 
turned she,  "  we  have  parted  with  the  colt,  and 
have  only  got  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  cop- 
per rims  and  shagreen  cases  !  A  murrain  take  such 
trumpery.    The  blockhead  has  been  imposed  upon. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


87 


and  should  have  known  his  company  better/' — 
"  There,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "  you  are  wrong,  he 
should  not  have  known  them  at  all." — "Marry, 
hang  the  idiot/'  returned  she,  "  to  bring  me  such 
stuff;  if  I  had  them  I  would  throw  them  in  the 
fire."  "  There  again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  cried 
I ;  "  for  though  they  be  copper,  we  will  keep  them 
by  us,  as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better 
than  nothing." 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  unde- 
ceived. He  now  saw  that  he  had  been  imposed 
upon  by  a  prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his 
figure,  had  marked  him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  there- 
fore asked  the  circumstance  of  his  deception.  He 
sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair  in 
search  of  another.  A  reverend  looking  man  brought 
him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of  having  one  to  sell. 
"  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we  met  another  man 
very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty 
pounds  upon  these,  saying  that  he  wanted  money, 
and  would  dispose  of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value. 
The  first  gentleman,  who  pretended  to  be  my  friend, 
whispered  me  to  buy  them,  and  cautioned  me  not 
to  let  so  good  an  offer  pass.  I  sent  for  Mr.  Flam- 
borough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they 
did  me,  and  so  at  last  we  were  persuaded  to  buy 
the  two  gross  between  us." 


88 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  enemy ;  for  he  has  the  confidence  to 
give  disagreeable  advice. 

Our  family  had  now  made  several  attempts  to  be 
fine ;  but  some  unforseen  disaster  demolished  each 
as  soon  as  projected.  I  endeavoured  to  take  the 
advantage  of  every  disappointment,  to  improve 
their  good  sense  in  proportion  as  they  were  frus- 
trated in  ambition.  "  You  see,  my  children/'  cried  I, 
u  how  little  is  to  be  got  by  attempts  to  impose  upon 
the  world,  in  coping  with  our  betters.  Such  as  are 
poor,  and  will  associate  with  none  but  the  rich,  are 
hated  by  those  they  avoid,  and  despised  by  those 
they  follow.  Unequal  combinations  are  always  dis- 
advantageous to  the  weaker  side  :  the  rich  having 
the  pleasure,  and  the  poor  the  inconveniences  that 
result  from  them.  But  come,  Dick,  my  boy,  and  re- 
peat the  fable  that  you  were  reading  to-day,  for  the 
good  of  the  company." 

u  Once  upon  a  time,"  cried  the  child,  "  a  giant 
and  a  dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept  together.  They 
made  a  bargain  that  they  would  never  forsake  each 
other,  but  go  seek  adventures.  The  first  battle 
they  fought  was  with  two  Saracens,  and  the  dwarf, 
who  was  very  courageous,  dealt  one  of  the  cham 
pions  a  most  angry  blow.    It  did  the  Saracen  very 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


89 


little  injury,  who,  lifting  up  his  sword,  fairly  struck 
off  the  poor  dwarf's  arm.  He  was  now  in  a  woful 
plight ;  but  the  giant  coining  to  his  assistance,  in  a 
short  time  left  the  Saracens  dead  on  the  plain,  and 
the  dwarf  cut  off  the  dead  man's  head  out  of  spite. 
'  They  then  travelled  on  to  another  adventure.  This 
was  against  three  bloody-minded  Satyrs,  who  were 
carrying  away  a  damsel  in  distress.  The  dwarf  was 
not  quite  so  fierce  now  as  before ;  but  for  all  that 
struck  the  first  blow,  which  was  returned  by  another 
that  knocked  out  his  eye ;  but  the  giant  was  soon 
up  with  them,  and  had  they  not  fled,  would  certain- 
ly have  killed  them  every  one.  They  were  all  very 
joyful  for  this  victory,  and  the  damsel  who  was  re- 
lieved fell  in  love  with  the  giant  and  married  him. 
They  now  travelled  far,  and  farther  than  I  can  tell, 
till  they  met  with  a  company  of  robbers.  The  giant 
for  the  first  time  was  foremost  now  ;  but  the  dwarf 
was  not  far  behind.  The  battle  was  stout  and  long. 
Wherever  the  giant  came,  all  fell  before  him;  but 
the  dwarf  had  like  to  have  been  killed  more  than 
once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two  ad- 
venturers ;  but  the  dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  dwarf 
was  now  without  an  arm,  a  leg,  and  an  eye,  while 
the  giant  was  without  a  single  wound.  Upon  which 
he  cried  out  to  his  little  companion,  6  My  little  hero, 
this  is  glorious  sport !  let  us  get  one  victory  more, 
and  then  we  shall  have  honour  for  ever.'  '  No,'  cries 
the  dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time  grown  wiser,  '  no, 


90 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I  declare  off;  I'll  fight  no  more:  for  I  find  in  every 
battle  that  you  get  all  the  honour  and  rewards,  but 
all  the  blows  fall  upon  me.' " 

"  I  was  going  to  moralize  this  fable,  when  our 
attention  was  called  off  to  a  warm  dispute  between 
my  wife  and  Mr.  Burchell,  upon  my  daughters'  in- 
tended expedition  to  town.  My  wife  very  strenu- 
ously insisted  upon  the  advantages  that  would  result 
from  it,  Mr.  Burchell.  on  the  contrary,  dissuaded 
her  with  great  ardour,  and  I  stood  neuter.  His 
present  dissuasions  seemed  but  the  second  part  of 
those  which  were  received  with  so  ill  a  grace  in  the 
morning.  The  dispute  grew  high,  while  poor  De- 
borah, instead  of  reasoning  stronger  talked  louder, 
and  at  last  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  from  a  defeat 
in  clamour.  The  conclusion  of  her  harangue, 
however,  was  highly  displeasing  to  us  all :  "  she 
knew,"  she  said,  "  of  some  who  had  their  own  secret 
reasons  for  what  they  advised ;  but,  for  her  part, 
she  wished  such  to  stay  away  from  her  house  for 
the  future." — "  Madam,"  cried  Burchell,  with  looks 
of  great  composure,  which  tended  to  inflame  her 
the  more,  "  as  for  secret  reasons,  you  are  right ;  I 
have  secret  reasons,  which  I  forbear  to  mention, 
because  you  are  not  able  to  answer  those  of  which 
I  make  no  secret :  but  I  find  my  visits  here  are  be- 
come troublesome ;  I'll  take  my  leave  therefore  now, 
and  perhaps  come  once  more  to  take  a  final  farewell 
when  I  am  quitting  the  country."    Thus  saying. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


91 


he  took  up  his  hat,  nor  could  the  attempts  of  Sophia, 
whose  looks  seemed  to  upbraid  his  precipitancy, 
prevent  his  going. 

When  gone  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some 
minutes  with  confusion.  My  wife,  who  knew  her- 
self to  be  the  cause,  strove  to  hide  her  concern  with 
a  forced  smile,  and  an  air  of  assurance,  which  I  was 
willing  to  reprove  :  "  How,  woman,"  cried  I  to  her, 
"  is  it  thus  we  treat  strangers  ?  Is  it  thus  we  return 
their  kindness  ?  Be  assured,  my  dear,  that  these 
were  the  harshest  words,  and  to  me  the  most  un- 
pleasing  that  ever  escaped  your  lips  !" — "  Why 
would  he  provoke  me  then  ?"  replied  she ;  "  but  I 
know  the  motives  of  his  advice  perfectly  well.  He 
would  prevent  my  girls  from  going  to  town,  that 
he  may  have  the  pleasure  of  my  youngest  daugh- 
ter's company  here  at  home.  But  whatever  hap- 
pens, she  shall  choose  better  company  than  such 
low-lived  fellows  as  he." — "  Low-lived,  my  dear,  do 
you  call  him  ?"  cried  I ;  "it  is  very  possible  we 
may  mistake  this  man's  character,  for  he  seems  upon 
some  occasions  the  most  finished  gentleman  I  ever 
knew. — Tell  me,  Sophia,  my  girl,  has  he  ever  given 
you  any  secret  instances  of  his  attachment  ?"  "  His 
conversation  with  me,  sir,"  replied  my  daughter, 
"  has  ever  been  sensible,  modest,  and  pleasing.  As 
to  aught  else,  no,  never.  Once,  indeed,  I  remember 
to  have  heard  him  say,  he  never  knew  a  woman 
who  could  find  merit  in  a  man  that  seemed  poor." 


92 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  Such,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "is  the  common  cant  of 
all  the  unfortunate  or  idle.  But  I  hope  you  have 
been  taught  to  judge  properly  of  such  men,  and 
that  it  would  be  even  madness  to  expect  happiness 
from  one  who  has  been  so  very  bad  an  economist  of 
his  own.  Your  mother  and  I  have  now  better  pros- 
pects for  you.  The  next  winter,  which  you  will 
probably  spend  in  town,  will  give  you  opportunities 
of  making  a  more  prudent  choice." 

What  Sophia  s  reflections  were  upon  this  occa- 
sion I  can't  pretend  to  determine  :  but  I  was  not 
displeased  at  the  bottom,  that  we  were  rid  of  a 
guest  from  whom  I  had  much  to  fear.  Our  breach 
of  hospitality  went  to  my  conscience  a  little ;  but 
I  quickly  silenced  that  monitor  by  two  or  three 
specious  reasons,  which  served  to  satisfy  and*recon- 
cile  me  to  myself.  The  pain  which  conscience  gives 
the  man  who  has  already  done  wrong,  is  soon  got 
over.  Conscience  is  a  coward,  and  those  faults  it 
has  not  strength  enough  to  prevent,  it  seldom  has 
justice  enough  to  accuse. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Fresh  Mortifications,  or  a  demonstration  that  seeming  Calamities 
may  be  real  Blessings. 

The  journey  of  my  daughters  to  town  was  now 
resolved  upon,  Mr.  Thornhill  having  kindly  pro- 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


93 


mised  to  inspect  their  conduct  himself,  and  in- 
form us  by  letter  of  their  behaviour.  But  it  was 
thought  indispensably  necessary  that  their  appear- 
ance should  equal  the  greatness  of  their  expectations, 
which  could  not  be  done  without  expense.  We 
debated  therefore  in  full  council  what  were  the 
easiest  methods  of  raising  money,  or  more  properly 
speaking,  what  we  could  most  conveniently  sell. 
The  deliberation  was  soon  finished  ;  it  was  found 
that  our  remaining  horse  was  utterly  useless  for 
the  plough  without  his  companion,  and  equally  un- 
fit for  the  road,  as  wanting  an  eye;  it  was  therefore 
determined  that  we  should  dispose  of  him  for  the 
purposes  above  mentioned,  at  the  neighbouring  fair, 
and  to  prevent  imposition  that  I  should  go  with  him 
myself.  Though  this  was  one  of  the  first  mercantile 
transactions  of  my  life,  yet  I  had  no  doubt  about 
acquitting  myself  with  reputation.  The  opinion  a 
man  forms  of  his  own  prudence  is  measured  by 
that  of  the  company  he  keeps ;  and  as  mine  was 
mostly  in  the  family  way,  I  had  conceived  no  un- 
favourable sentiments  of  my  worldly  wisdom.  My 
wife,  however,  next  morning,  at  parting,  after  I  had 
got  some  paces  from  the  door,  called  me  back,  to 
advise  me  in  a  whisper,  to  have  all  my  eyes  about 
me. 

I  had,  in  the  usual  forms,  when  I  came  to  the 
fair,  put  my  horse  through  all  his  paces ;  but  for 
some  time  hai  no  bidders.    At  last  a  chapman 


94 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


approached,  and  after  he  had  for  a  good  while 
examined  the  horse  round,  finding  him  blind  of  one 
eye,  he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him ;  a  second 
came  up,  but  observing  he  had  a  spavin,  declared 
he  would  not  take  him  for  the  driving  home :  a 
third  person  perceived  he  had  a  windgall,  and  would 
bid  no  money ;  a  fourth  knew  by  his  eye  that  he 
had  the  botts  :  a  fifth  wondered  what  a  plague  I 
could  do  at  the  fair  with  a  blind,  spavined,  galled 
hack,  that  was  only  fit  to  be  cut  up  for  a  dog-ken- 
nel. By  this  time  I  began  to  have  a  most  hearty 
contempt  for  the  poor  animal  myself,  and  was 
almost  ashamed  at  the  approach  of  every  customer; 
for  though  I  did  not  entirely  believe  all  the  fellows 
told  me,  yet  I  reflected  that  the  number  of  witness- 
es was  a  strong  presumption  they  were  right ;  and 
St.  Gregory  upon  Good  Works,  professes  himself  to 
be  of  the  same  opinion. 

T  was  in  this  mortifying  situation,  when  a  brother 
clergyman,  an  old  acquaintance,  who  had  also 
business  at  the  fair,  came  up,  and  shaking  me  by 
the  hand,  proposed  adjourning  to  a  public-house, 
and  taking  a  glass  of  whatever  we  could  get.  I 
readily  closed  with  the  offer,  and  entering  an  ale- 
house we  were  shown  into  a  little  back  room,  where 
there  was  only  a  venerable  old  man,  who  sat  wholly 
intent  over  a  large  book,  which  he  was  reading.  I 
never  in  my  life  saw  a  figure  that  prepossessed  me 
more  favourably.    His  locks  of  silver  gray  vene* 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


95 


rably  shaded  his  temples,  and  his  green  old  age 
seemed  to  be  the  result  of  health  and  benevolence. 
However,  his  presence  did  not  interrupt  our  conver- 
sation :  my  friend  and  I  discoursed  on  the  various 
turns  of  fortune  we  had  met;  the  Whistonian  con- 
troversy, my  last  pamphlet,  the  archdeacon's  reply, 
and  the  hard  measure  that  was  dealt  me.  But  our 
attention  was  in  a  short  time  taken  off  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  youth,  who  entering  the  room,  re- 
spectfully said  something  softly  to  the  old  stranger. 
"  Make  no  apologies,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  to  do  good  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  all  our  fellow- 
creatures  ;  take  this,  I  wish  it  were  more ;  but  five 
pounds  will  relieve  your  distress,  and  you  are 
welcome."  The  modest  youth  shed  tears  of  grati- 
tude, and  yet  his  gratitude  was  scarcely  equal  to 
mine.  I  could  have  hugged  the  good  old  man  in  my 
arms,  his  benevolence  pleased  me  so.  He  continued 
to  read,  and  we  resumed  our  conversation,  until  my 
companion,  after  some  time,  recollecting  that  he 
had  business  to  transact  in  the  fair,  promised  to  be 
soon  back,  adding,  that  he  always  desired  to  have 
as  much  of  Dr.  Primrose's  company  as  possible. 
jLlie  old  gentleman  hearing  my  name  mentioned, 
seemed  to  look  at  me  with  attention  for  some  time, 
and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most  respectfully  de- 
manded if  I  was  any  way  related  to  the  great  Prim- 
rose, that  courageous  monogamist,  who  had  been  the 
bulwark  of  the  church.    Never  did  my  heart  feeJ 


96 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


sincerer  rapture  than  at  that  moment.  "  Sir/'  cried 
I,  "  the  applause  of  so  good  a  man,  as  I  am  sure 
you  are,  adds  to  that  happiness  in  my  breast  which 
your  benevolence  has  already  excited.  You  behold 
before  you,  sir,  that  Dr.  Primrose,  the  monogamist, 
whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  call  great.  You 
here  see  that  unfortunate  divine,  who  has  so  long, 
and  it  would  ill  become  me  to  say  successfully,  fought 
against  the  deuterogomy  of  the  age." — "  Sir,"  cried 
the  stranger,  struck  with  awe,  "  I  fear  I  have  been 
too  familiar ;  but  you'll  forgive  my  curiosity  sir  :  I 
beg  pardon." — "  Sir,"  cried  I,  grasping  his  hand, 
"  you  are  so  far  from  displeasing  me  by  your  fami- 
liarity, that  I  must  beg  you'll  accept  my  friendship, 
as  you  already  have  my  esteem." — "  Then  with 
gratitude  I  accept  the  offer,"  cried  he,  squeezing  me 
by  the  hand,  "thou  glorious  pillar  of  unshaken 
orthodoxy  !  and  do  I  behold — "  I  here  interrupted 
what  he  was  going  to  say;  for  though,  as  an  author, 
I  could  digest  no  small  share  of  flattery,  yet  now 
my  modesty  would  permit  no  more.  However,  no 
lovers  in  romance  ever  cemented  a  more  instanta- 
neous friendship.  We  talked  upon  several  subjects, 
at  first  I  thought  he  seemed  rather  devout  than 
learned,  and  began  to  think  he  despised  all  human 
doctrines  as  dross.  Yet  this  no  way  lessened  him 
in  my  esteem ;  for  I  had  for  some  time  begun  pri- 
vately to  harbour  such  an  opinion  myself.  I  there- 
fore took  occasion  to  observe,  that  the  world  in 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


97 


general  began  to  be  blamably  indifferent  as  to  doc- 
trinal matters,  and  followed  human  speculations  toe 
much  — "  Ay,  sir,"  replied  he,  as  if  he  had  reserved 
all  his  learning  to  that  moment,  "  ay,  sir,  the  world 
is  in  its  dotage,  and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation 
of  the  world  has  puzzled  philosophers  of  all  ages. 
What  a  medley  of  opinions  have  they  not  broached 
upon  the  creation  of  the  world  !  Sanchoniathon, 
Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  all 
attempted  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words, 
Anarclwn  ara  Jcai  atehitaion  to  pan,  which  imply 
that  all  things  have  neither  beginning  nor  end. 
Manetho  also,  wrho  lived  about  the  time  of  Ne- 
buchadon-Asser, — Asser  being  a  Syriac  word  usual 
ly  applied  as  a  surname  to  the  kings  of  that  country, 
as  Teglat  Phael- Asser,  Nabon-Asser, — he,  I  say, 
formed  a  conjecture  equally  absurd ;  for  as  we  usu- 
ally say,  eh  to  biblion  hubernetes,  which  implies  that 
books  will  never  teach  the  world ;  so  he  attempted 
to  investigate — But,  sir,  I  ask  pardon,  I  am  straying 
from  the  question." — That  he  actually  was;  nor 
could  I  for  my  life  see  how  the  creation  of  the  world 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  business  I  was  talking 
of ;  but  it  was  sufficient  to  show  me  that  he  was  a 
man  of  letters,  and  I  now  reverenced  him  the  more. 
I  was  resolved  therefore  to  bring  him  to  the  touch- 
stone; but  he  was  too  mild  and  too  gentle  to  contend 
for  victory.  Whenever  I  made  an  observation  that 
looked  like  a  challange  to  controversy,  he  would 


98 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


smile,  shake  his  head,  and  say  nothing :  by  which 
I  understood  he  could  say  much,  if  he  thought 
proper.  The  subject  therefore  insensibly  changed 
from  the  business  of  antiquity  to  that  which  brought 
us  both  to  the  fair:  mine,  I  told  him,  was  to  sell  a 
horse,  and  very  luckily  indeed,  his  was  to  buy  one  for 
one  of  his  tenants.  My  horse  was  soon  produced,  arid 
in  fine  we  struck  a  bargain.  Nothing  now  remained 
but  to  pay  me,  and  he  accordingly  pulled  out  a 
thirty  pound  note,  and  bid  me  change  it.  Not 
being  in  a  capacity  of  complying  with  this  demand, 
he  ordered  his  footman  to  be  called  up,  who  made 
his  appearance  in  a  very  genteel  livery.  "  Here, 
Abraham,"  cried  he,  "go  and  get  gold  for  this; 
you'll  do  it  at  neighbour  Jackson's  or  any  where." 
While  the  fellow  wras  gone,  he  entertained  me  with 
a  pathetic  harangue  on  the  great  scarcity  of  silver, 
which  I  undertook  to  improve,  by  deploring  also 
the  great  scarcity  of  gold;  so  that  by  the  time 
Abraham  returned,  we  had  both  agreed  that  money 
was  never  so  hard  to  be  come  at  as  now.  Abraham 
returned  to  inform  us,  that  he  had  been  over  the 
whole  fair,  and  could  not  get  change,  though  he 
had  offered  half  a  crown  for  doing  it.  This  was  a 
very  great  disappointment  to  us  all;  but  the  old 
gentleman,  having  paused  a  little,  asked  me  if  I 
knew  one  Solomon  Flamborough  in  my  part  of  the 
country?  Upon  replying  that  he  was  my  next-door 
neighbour ;  "  if  that  be  the  case  then,"  returned  he, 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


99 


"I  believe  we  shall  deal.  You  shall  have  a  iraft 
upon  him  payable  at  sight ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  he 
is  as  warm  a  man  as  any  within  five  miles  round 
him.  Honest  Solomon  and  I  have  been  acquainted 
for  many  years  together.  I  remember  I  always  beat 
him  at  three  jumps;  but  he  could  hop  on  one  leg 
farther  than  I."  A  draft  upon  my  neighbour  was 
to  me  the  same  as  money;  for  I  was  sufficiently 
convinced  of  his  ability.  The  draft  was  signed, 
and  put  into  my  hands,  and  Mr.  Jenkinson,  the  old 
gentleman,  his  man  Abraham,  and  my  horse,  old 
Blackberry,  trotted  off  very  well  pleased  with  each 
other. 

After  a  short  interval,  being  left  to  reflection,  I 
began  to  recollect  that  I  had  done  wrong  in  taking 
a  draft  from  a  stranger,  and  so  prudently  resolved 
upon  following  the  purchaser,  and  having  back  my 
horse.  But  this  was  now  too  late ;  I  therefore  made 
directly  homewards,  resolving  to  get  the  draft 
changed  into  money  at  my  friend's  as  fast  as  possi- 
ble. I  found  my  honest  neighbour  smoking  his 
pipe  at  his  own  door,  and  informing  him  that  I  had 
a  small  bill  upon  him,  he  read  it  twice  over.  "  You 
can  read  the  name,  I  suppose,"  cried  I,  "  Ephraim 
Jenkinson."  "  Yes,"  returned  he,  "  the  name  is 
written  plain  enough,  and  I  know  the  gentleman 
too,  the  greatest  rascal  under  the  canopy  of  heaven. 
This  is  the  very  same  rogue  who  sold  us  the  spec- 
tacles.   Was  he  not  a  venerable  looking  man,  with 

7 


100 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


gray  hair,  and  no  flaps  to  his  pocket-holes  ?  And 
did  he  not  talk  a  long  string  of  learning  about 
Greek,  and  cosmogony,  and  the  world  V  To  this 
I  replied  with  a  groan.  "  Ay"  continued  he,  "  he 
has  but  that  one  piece  of  learning  in  the  world,  and 
he  always  talks  it  away  whenever  he  finds  a  scholar 
in  company;  but  I  know  the  rogue,  and  will  catch 
him  yet." 

Though  I  was  already  sufficiently  mortified,  my 
greatest  struggle  was  to  come,  in  facing  my  wife 
and  daughters.  No  truant  was  ever  more  afraid 
of  returning  to  school,  there  to  behold  the  master's 
visage,  than  I  was  of  going  home.  I  was  deter- 
mined, however,  to  anticipate  their  fury,  by  first 
falling  into  a  passion  myself. 

But,  alas  !  upon  entering,  I  found  the  family  no 
way  disposed  to  battle.  My  wife  and  girls  wrere  all 
in  tears,  Mr.  Thornhill  having  been  there  that  day 
to  inform  them,  that  their  journey  to  town  was 
entirely  over.  The  two  ladies  having  heard  reports 
of  us  from  some  malicious  person  about  us,  were 
that  day  set  out  for  London.  He  could  neither 
discover  the  tendency,  nor  the  author  of  these  ;  but 
whatever  they  might  be,  or  whoever  might  have 
broached  them,  he  continued  to  assure  our  family  of 
his  friendship  and  protection.  I  found,  therefore,  that 
they  bore  my  disappointment  with  great  resignation, 
as  it  was  eclipsed  in  the  greatness  of  their  own. 
But  what  perplexed  us  most,  was  to  think  who 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


101 


could  be  so  base  as  to  asperse  the  character  of  a 
family  so  harmless  as  ours,  too  humble  to  excite . 
envy,  and  too  inoffensive  to  create  disgust. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

All  Mr.  BurchelFs  villainy  at  once  detected. — The  folly  of  being 
over-wise. 

That  evening,  and  a  part  of  the  following  day, 
was  employed  in  fruitless  attempts  to  discover  our 
enemies ;  scarcely  a  family  in  the  neighbourhood  but 
incurred  our  suspicions,  and  each  of  us  had  reasons 
for  our  opinion  best  known  to  ourselves.  As  we 
were  in  this  perplexity,  one  of  our  little  boys,  who 
had  been  playing  abroad,  brought  in  a  letter-case 
which  he  found  on  the  green.  It  was  quickly 
known  to  belong  to  Mr.  Burchell,  with  whom  it 
had  been  seen,  and,  upon  examination,  contained 
some  hints  upon  different  subjects;  but  what  par- 
ticularly engaged  our  attention  was  a  sealed  note 
superscribed,  The  copy  of  a  letter  to  be  sent  to  the  two 
ladies  at  Thornhill-castle.  It  instantly  occurred 
that  he  was  the  base  informer,  and  we  deliberated 
whether  the  note  should  not  be  broken  open.  I 
was  against  it;  but  Sophia,  who  said  she  was  sure 
that  of  all  men  he  would  be  the  last  to  -be  guilty 
of  so  much  baseness,  insisted  upon  its  being  read. 
In  this  she  was  seconded  by  the  rest  of  the  family, 
and  at  their  joint  solicitation  I  read  as  follows : 


102 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  Ladies, 

"  The  bearer  will  sufficiently  satisfy  you  as  to  the 
person  from  whom  this  comes :  one  at  least  the 
friend  of  innocence,  and  ready  to  prevent  its  being 
seduced.  I  am  informed  for  a  truth  that  you  have 
some  intention  of  bringing  two  young  ladies  to  town, 
whom  I  have  some  knowledge  of,  under  the  cha- 
racter of  companions.  As  I  would  neither  have 
simplicity  imposed  upon,  nor  virtue  contaminated, 
I  must  offer  it  as  my  opinion,  that  the  impropriety 
of  such  a  step  will  be  attended  with  dangerous  con- 
sequences. It  has  never  been  my  way  to  treat  the 
infamous  or  the  lewd  with  severity;  nor  should  I 
now  have  taken  this  method  of  explaining  myself, 
or  reproving  folly,  did  it  not  aim  at  guilt.  Take 
therefore  the  admonition  of  a  friend,  and  seriously 
reflect  on  the  consequences  of  introducing  infamy 
and  vice  into  retreats,  where  peace  and  innocence 
have  hitherto  resided. 

Our  doubts  were  now  at  an  end.  There  seemed 
indeed  something  applicable  to  both  sides  in  this 
letter,  and  its  censures  might  as  well  be  referred  to 
those  to  whom  it  was  written,  as  to  us ;  but  the 
malicious  meaning  was  obvious,  and  we  went  no 
farther.  My  wife  had  scarcely  patience  to  hear  me 
to  the  end,  but  railed  at  the  writer  with  unrestrain- 
ed resentment.  Olivia  was  equally  severe,  and 
Sophia  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  his  baseness. 
A.s  for  my  part,  it  appeared  to  me  one  of  the  vilest 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


103 


instances  of  unprovoked  ingratitude  I  had  met  with ; 
nor  could  I  account  for  it  in  any  other  manner, 
than  by  imputing  it  to  his  desire  of  detaining  my 
youngest  daughter  in  the  country,  to  have  the  more 
frequent  opportunities  of  an  interview.  In  this 
manner  we  all  set  ruminating  upon  schemes  of  ven- 
geance, when  our  other  little  boy  came  running  in 
to  tell  us  that  Mr.  Burchell  was  approaching  at  the 
other  end  of  the  field.  It  is  easier  to  conceive  than 
describe  the  complicated  sensations  which  are  felt 
from  the  pain  of  a  recent  injury,  and  the  pleasure 
of  approaching  vengeance.  Though  our  intentions 
were  only  to  upbraid  him  with  his  ingratitude,  yet 
it  was  resolved  to  do  it  in  a  manner  that  would  be 
perfectly  cutting.  For  this  purpose  we  agreed  to 
meet  him  with  our  usual  smiles ;  to  chat  in  the 
beginning  with  more  than  ordinary  kindness ;  to 
amuse  him  a  little ;  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  the 
flattering  calm,  to  burst  upon  him  like  an  earth- 
quake, and  overwhelm  him  with  a  sense  of  his  own 
baseness.  This  being  resolved  upon,  my  wife  un- 
dertook to  manage  the  business  herself,  as  she  really 
had  some  talents  for  such  an  undertaking.  We  saw 
him  approach ;  he  entered,  drew  a  chair,  and  sat 
down. — "  A  fine  day,  Mr.  Burchell." — "  A  very  fine 
day,  doctor;  though  I  fancy  we  shall  have  some 
rain  by  the  shooting  of  my  corns." — "  The  shooting 
of  your  horns !"  cried  my  wife  with  a  loud  fit  of 
laughter,  and  then  asked  pardon  for  beinF  fond  of  a 


104 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


joke. — "  Dear  madam,"  replied  he,  "  I  pardon  you 
with  all  my  heart,  for  I  protest  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  a  joke  had  you  not  told  me." — "Perhaps 
not,  sir,"  cried  my  wife,  winking  at  us ;  "  and  yet  I 
dare  say  you  can  tell  us  how  many  jokes  go  to  an 
ounce."  "  I  fancy,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Burchell, 
"  you  have  been  reading  a  jest  book  this  morning, 
that  ounce  of  jokes  is  so  very  good  a  conceit;  and 
yet,  madam,  I  had  rather  see  half  an  ounce  of  un- 
derstanding."— "I  believe  you  might,"  cried  my 
wife,  still  smiling  at  us,  though  the  lr.ugh  was 
against  her :  "  and  yet  I  have  seen  some  men  pre- 
tend to  understanding  that  have  very  little."  "  And 
no  doubt,"  returned  her  antagonist,  "you  have 
known  ladies  set  up  for  wit  that  had  none."  I 
quickly  began  to  find  that  my  wife  was  likely  to 
gain  but  little  at  this  business ;  so  I  resolved  to 
treat  him  in  a  style  of  more  severity  myself.  "  Both 
wit  and  understanding,"  cried  I,  u  are  trifles  with- 
out integrity ;  it  is  that  which  gives  value  to 
every  character.  The  ignorant  peasant  without 
fault,  is  greater  than  the  philosopher  with  many ; 
for  what  is  genius  or  courage  without  a  heart  ?  An 
honest  man  is  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

u  I  always  held  that  hackneyed  maxim  of  Pope," 
returned  Mr.  Burchell,  "  as  very  unworthy  a  man 
of  genius,  and  a  base  desertion  of  his  own  superi- 
ority. As  the  reputation  of  books  is  raised,  not  by 
their  freedom  from  defect,  but  the  greatness  of  then 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


105 


beauties;  so  should  that  of  men  be  prized,  not  for 
their  exemption  from  fault,  but  the  size  of  those 
virtues  they  are  possessed  of.  The  scholar  may 
want  prudence,  the  statesman  may  have  pride,  and 
the  champion  ferocity ;  but  shall  we  prefer  to  these 
the  low  mechanic,  who  laboriously  plods  through 
life  without  censure  or  applause  ?  We  might  as 
well  prefer  the  tame,  correct  paintings  of  the  Flem- 
ish school  to  the  erroneous  but  sublime  animations 
of  the  Roman  pencil." 

"Sir,"  replied  I,  "your  present  observation  is  just, 
when  there  are  shining  virtues  and  minute  defects, 
but  when  it  appears  that  great  vices  are  opposed  in 
the  same  mind  to  as  extraordinary  virtues,  such  a 
character  deserves  contempt." 

"  Perhaps,"  cried  he,  "  there  may  be  some  such 
monsters  as  you  describe,  of  great  vices  joined  to 
great  virtues ;  yet  in  my  progress  through  life,  I 
never  yet  found  one  instance  of  their  existence  ;  on 
the  contrary,  I  have  ever  perceived,  that  where  the 
mind  was  capacious,  the  affections  were  good.  And 
indeed  Providence  seems  kindly  our  friend  in  this 
particular,  thus  to  debilitate  the  understanding 
where  the  heart  is  corrupt,  and  diminish  the  power, 
where  there  is  the  will  to  do  mischief.  This  rule 
seems  to  extend  even  to  other  animals :  the  little 
vermin  race  are  ever  treacherous,  cruel,  and  cow- 
ardly, whilst  those  endowed  with  strength  and  power 
are  generous,  brave,  and  gentle  " 


106 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  These  observations  sound  well/'  returned  I,  :c  and 
yet  it  would  be  easy  this  moment  to  point  out  a 
man/'  and  I  fixed  my  eye  steadfastly  upon  him, 
"  whose  head  and  heart  form  a  most  detestable 
contrast.  Ay,  sir/'  continued  I,  raising  my  voice, 
"  and  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  detect- 
ing him  in  the  midst  of  his  fancied  security.  Do 
you  know  this,  sir,  this  pocket-book  ?" — "  Yes,  sir," 
returned  he,  with  a  face  of  impenetrable  assurance, 
"  that  pocket-book  is  mine,  and  I  am  glad  you  have 
found  it." — "  And  do  you  know,"  cried  I,  "  this  let- 
ter? Nay,  never  falter,  man;  but  look  me  full 
in  the  face  :  I  say,  do  you  know  this  letter  ?"  "  That 
letter,"  returned  he;  "  yes,  it  was  I  that  wrote  that 
letter." — "And  how  could  you,"  said  I,  "  so  basely, 
so  ungratefully  presume  to  write  this  letter  ?" — 
"  And  how  came  you,"  replied  he  with  looks  of  un- 
paralleled effrontery,  "so  basely  to  presume  to  break 
open  this  letter?  Don't  jou  know,  now,  I  could 
hang  you  all  for  this  ?  All  that  I  have  to  do  is  to 
swear  at  the  next  justice's,  that  you  have  been 
guilty  of  breaking  open  the  lock  of  my  pocket-book, 
and  so  hang  you  all  up  at  this  door."  This  piece 
of  unexpected  insolence  raised  me  to  such  a  pitch, 
that  I  could  scarce  govern  my  passion.  "  Ungrate- 
ful wretch  !  begone,  and  no  longer  pollute  my  dwell- 
ing with  thy  baseness !  begone,  and  never  let  me 
see  thee  again !  Go  from  my  door,  and  the  only 
punishment  I  wish  thee  is  an  alarmed  conscience, 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


107 


which  will  be  a  sufficient  tormentor !"  So  saying, 
I  threw  him  his  pocket-book,  which  he  took  up 
with  a  smile,  and  shutting  the  clasps  with  the 
utmost  composure,  left  us  quite  astonished  at  the 
serenity  of  his  assurance.  My  wife  was  particu- 
larly enraged  that  nothing  could  make  him  angry, 
or  make  him  seem  ashamed  of  his  villanies.  "  My 
dear,"  cried  I,  willing  to  calm  those  passions  that 
had  been  raised  too  high  among  us,  "  we  are  not  to 
be  surprised  that  bad  men  want  shame;  they  only 
blush  at  being  detected  in  doing  good,  but  glory  in 
their  vices." 

"  Guilt  and  Shame,  says  the  allegory,  were  at  first 
companions,  and  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey> 
inseparably  kept  together.  But  their  union  was  soon 
found  to  be  disagreeable  and  inconvenient  to  both  : 
Guilt  gave  Shame  frequent  uneasiness,  and  Shame 
often  betrayed  the  secret  conspiracies  of  guilt.  After 
long  disagreement,  therefore,  they  at  length  con- 
sented to  part  forever.  Guilt  boldly  walked  forward 
alone,  to  overtake  Fate,  that  went  before  them  in 
the  shape  of  an  executioner;  but  Shame  being 
naturally  timorous,  returned  back  to  keep  company 
with  Virtue,  which  in  the  beginning  of  their  jour- 
ney they  had  left  behind.  Thus,  my  children, 
after  men  have  travelled  through  a  few  stages  in 
vice,  shame  forsakes  them,  and  returns  back  to  wait 
upon  the  few  virtues  they  have  still  remaining." 


108 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
The  family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with  still  greater. 

Whatever  might  have  been  Sophia's  sensations, 
the  rest  of  the  family  was  easily  consoled  for  Mr. 
Burchell's  absence  by  the  company  of  our  landlord, 
whose  visits  now  became  more  frequent  and  longer. 
Though  he  had  been  disappointed  in  procuring  my 
daughters  the  amusements  of  the  town,  as  he  de- 
signed,  he  took  every  opportunity  of  supplying 
them  with  those  little  recreations  which  our  retire- 
ment would  admit  of.  He  usually  came  in  the 
morning,  and  while  my  son  and  I  followed  our  oc- 
cupations abroad,  he  sat  with  the  family  at  home, 
and  amused  them  by  describing  the  town,  with 
every  part  of  which  he  was  particularly  acquainted. 
He  could  repeat  all  the  observations  that  were  re- 
tailed in  the  atmosphere  of  the  play-houses,  and 
had  all  the  good  things  of  the  high  wits  by  rote, 
long  before  they  made  their  way  into  the  jest-books. 
The  intervals  between  conversation  were  employed 
in  teaching  my  daughters  piquet,  or  sometimes  in 
setting  my  two  little  ones  to  box,  to  make  them 
sharp,  as  he  called  it :  but  the  hopes  of  having  him 
for  a  son-in-law,  in  some  measure  blinded  us  to  all 
his  imperfections.  It  must  be  owned,  that  my  wife 
laid  a  thousand  schemes  to  entrap  him ;  or,  to  speak 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


109 


more  tenderly,  used  every  art  to  magnify  the  merit 
of  her  daughter.  If  the  cakes  at  tea  ate  short 
and  crisp,  they  were  made  by  Olivia ;  if  the  goose- 
berry-wine was  well  knit,  the  gooseberries  were  of 
her  gathering :  it  was  her  fingers  which  gave  the 
pickles  their  peculiar  green  ;  and  in  the  composition 
of  a  pudding,  it  was  her  judgment  that  mixed  the 
ingredients.  Then  the  poor  woman  would  some- 
times tell  the  'Squire,  that  she  thought  him  and 
Olivia  extremely  of  a  size,  and  would  bid  both 
stand  up  to  see  which  was  the  tallest.  These  in- 
stances of  cunning,  which  she  thought  impenetrable, 
yet  which  every  body  saw  through,  were  very  pleas- 
ing to  our  benefactor,  who  gave  every  day  some 
new  proofs  of  his  passion,  which,  though  they  had 
not  arisen  to  proposals  of  marriage,  yet  we  thought 
fell  but  little  short  of  it;  and  his  slowness  was 
attributed  sometimes  to  native  bashfulness,  and 
sometimes  to  his  fear  of  offending  his  uncle.  An 
occurrence,  however,  which  happened  soon  after, 
put  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  designed  to  become 
one  of  our  family ;  my  wife  even  regarded  it  as  an 
absolute  promise. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a 
visit  to  neighbor  Flamborough's,  found  that  family 
had  lately  got  their  pictures  drawn  by  a  limner, 
who  travelled  the  country,  and  took  likenesses  for 
fifteen  shillings  a-head.  As  this  family  and  ours 
had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our 


110 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


spirit  took  the  alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us, 
and  notwithstanding  all  I  could  say,  and  I  said  much, 
it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have  pictures  done 
too.  Having,  therefore,  engaged  the  limner, — for 
what  could  I  do?— our  next  deliberation  was  to  show 
the  superiority  of  our  tastes  in  the  attitudes.  As 
for  our  neighbour's  family,  there  were  seven  of 
them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges,  a 
thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in  life,  no  com- 
position in  the  world.  We  desired  to  have  some- 
thing in  a  brighter  style,  and,  after  many  debates, 
at  length  came  to  an  unanimous  resolution  of  being 
drawn  together  in  one  large  historical  family  piece. 
This  would  be  cheaper,  since  one  frame  would  serve 
for  all,  and  it  would  be  infinitely  more  genteel ;  for 
all  families  of  any  taste  were  now  drawn  in  the 
same  manner.  As  we  did  not  immediately  recol- 
lect an  historical  subject  to  hit  us.  we  were  con- 
tented each  with  being  drawn  as  independent 
historical  figures.  My  wife  desired  to  be  repre- 
sented as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was  desired  not 
to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stomacher 
and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be  as  Cupids 
by  her  side,  while  I  in  my  gown  and  band,  was  to 
present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whistonian  con- 
troversy. Olivia  would  be  drawn  as  an  Amazon 
sitting  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  dressed  in  a  green  Jo- 
seph, richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a  whip  in  her  hand. 
Sophia  was  to  be  a  shepherdess,  with  as  many 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


Ill 


sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  nothing ;  and 
Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with  a  hat  and  white 
feather.  Our  taste  so  much  pleased  the  'Squire, 
that  he  insisted  as  being  put  in  as  one  of  the  family 
in  the  character  of  Alexander  the  Great,  at  Olivia  s 
feet.  This  was  considered  by  us  all  as  an  indication 
of  his  desire  to  be  introduced  into  the  family,  nor 
could  we  refuse  his  request.  The  painter  was 
therefore  set  to  work,  and  as  he  wrought  with  as- 
siduity and  expedition,  in  less  than  four  days  the 
whole  was  completed.  The  piece  was  large,  and  it 
must  be  owned  he  did  not  spare  his  colours ;  for 
which  my  wife  gave  him  great  encomiums.  We 
were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  performance ; 
but  an  unfortunate  circumstance  had  not  occurred 
till  the  picture  was  finished,  which  now  struck  us 
with  dismay.  It  was  so  very  large  that  we  had  no 
place  in  the  house  to  fix  it.  How  we  all  came  to 
disregard  so  material  a  point  is  inconceivable;  but 
certain  it  is,  we  had  been  all  greatly  remiss.  The 
picture  therefore  instead  of  gratifying  our  vanity, 
as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a  most  mortifying  manner, 
against  the  kitchen  wall,  where  the  canvas  was 
stretched  and  painted,  much  too  large  to  be  got 
through  any  of  the  doors,  and  the  jest  of  all  our 
neighbours.  One  compared  it  to  Robinson  Crusoe's 
long-boat,  too  large  to  be  removed ;  another  thought 
it  more  resembled  a  reel  in  a  bottle :  some  wondered 
how  it  could  be  got  out,  but  still  more  were  amazed 
how  it  ever  got  in. 


112 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it 
effectually  raised  more  malicious  suggestions  in 
many.  The  'Squire's  portrait  being  found  united 
with  ours,  was  an  honour  too  great  to  escape  envy. 
Scandalous  whispers  began  to  circulate  at  our  ex- 
pense, and  our  tranquillity  was  continually  dis- 
turbed by  persons  who  came  as  friends  to  tell  us 
what  was  said  of  us  by  enemies.  These  reports 
we  always  resented  with  becoming  spirit ;  but 
scandal  ever  improves  by  opposition. 

We  once  again  therefore  entered  into  a  consul- 
tation upon  obviating  the  malice  of  our  enemies, 
and  at  last  came  to  a  resolution  which  had  too 
much  cunning-  to  give  me  entire  satisfaction.  It 
was  this :  as  our  principal  object  was  to  discover 
the  honour  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  addresses,  my  wife 
undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his 
advice  in  the  choice  of  a  husband  for  her  eldest 
daughter.  Tf  this  was  not  found  sufficient  to  induce 
him  to  a  declaration,  it  was  then  resolved  to  terrify 
him  with  a  rival.  To  this  last  step,  however,  I 
would  by  no  means  give  my  consent,  till  Olivia 
gave  me  the  most  solemn  assurances  that  she  would 
marry  the  person  provided  to  rival  him  upon  this 
occasion,  if  he  did  not  prevent  it  by  taking  her 
himself.  Such  was  the  scheme  laid,  which,  though 
I  did  not  strenuously  oppose,  I  did  not  entirely 
approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


113 


came  to  see  us,  my  girls  took  care  to  be  out  of  the 
way,  in  order  to  give  their  mamma  an  opportunity 
of  putting  her  scheme  into  execution ;  but  they 
only  retired  to  the  next  room,  whence  they  could 
overhear  the  whole  conversation.  My  wife  artfully 
introduced  it,  by  observing,  that  one  of  the  Miss 
Flamboroughs  was  like  to  have  a  very  good  match 
of  it  in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the  'Squire  assenting, 
she  proceeded  to  remark,  that  they  who  had  warm 
fortunes  were  always  sure  of  getting  good  husbands ; 
"  But  heaven  help,"  continued  she,  "the  girls  that 
have  none.  What  signifies  beauty,  Mr.  Thornhill  ? 
or  what  signifies  all  the  virtue,  and  all  the  qualifi- 
cations in  the  world,  in  this  age  of  self-interest  ?  It 
is  not,  what  is  she  ?  but  what  has  she  ?  is  all  the 
cry." 

"  Madam,"  returned  he,  "  I  highly  approve  the 
justice,  as  well  as  the  novelty  of  your  remarks,  and 
if  I  were  a  king,  it  should  be  otherwise.  It  should 
then,  indeed,  be  fine  times  with  the  girls  without 
fortunes  :  our  two  young  ladies  should  be  the  first 
for  whom  I  would  provide." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  returned  my  wife  "you  are  pleased  to 
be  facetious :  but  I  wish  I  were  a  queen,  and  then 
I  know  where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look  for 
a  husband.  But  now,  that  you  have  put  it  into  my 
head,  seriously,  Mr.  Thornhill,  can't  you  recommend 
me  a  proper  husband  for  her?  she  is  now  nineteen 
years  old,  well  grown  and  well  educated,  and,  in 
my  humble  opinion,  does  not  want  for  parts." 


114 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  Madam/'  replied  he,  "  if  I  were  to  choose,  1 
would  find  out  a  person  possessed  of  every  accom- 
plishment that  can  make  an  angel  happy.  One 
with  prudence,  fortune,  taste,  and  sincerity ;  such, 
madam,  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  proper  hus- 
band." "  Ay,  sir,"  said  she,  "  but  do  you  know  of 
any  such  person  ?" — "  No,  madam,"  returned  he, 
"it  is  impossible  to  know  any  person  that  deserves 
to  be  her  husband  :  she's  too  great  a  treasure  for 
one  man's  possession ;  she's  a  goddess  !  Upon  my 
soul,  I  speak  what  I  think ;  she's  an  angel." — "  Ah, 
Mr.  Thornhill,  you  only  flatter  my  poor  girl;  but 
we  have  been  thinking  of  marrying  her  to  one 
of  your  tenants  whose  mother  is  lately  dead,  and 
who  wants  a  manager  :  you  know  whom  I  mean, 
Farmer  Williams;  a  warm  man,  Mr.  Thornhill, 
able  to  give  her  good  bread ;  and  who  has  several 
times  made  her  proposals  (which  was  actually  the 
case)  :  but,  sir,"  concluded  she,  "  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  your  approbation  of  our  choice." — "  How  ! 
madam  !"  replied  he,  "  my  approbation  !  My  appro- 
bation of  such  a  choice  !  Never.  What !  sacrifice 
so  much  beauty,  and  sense,  and  goodness,  to  a 
creature  insensible  of  the  blessing !  Excuse  me,  1 
can  never  approve  of  such  a  piece  of  injustice  ! 
And  I  have  my  reasons." — "  Indeed,  sir,"  cried  De- 
borah, "  if  you  have  your  reasons,  that's  another 
affair ;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know  those  reasons.', 
— "  Excuse  me,  madam,"  returned  he,  "  they  lie  too 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


US 


deep  for  discovery  (laying  his  hand  upon  his  bosom); 
they  remain  buried,  rivetted  here." 

After  he  was  gone,  upon  a  general  consultation, 
we  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  these  fine  senti- 
ments. Olivia  considered  them  as  instances  of  the 
most  exalted  passion ;  but  I  was  not  quite  so  san- 
guine; it  seemed  to  me  pretty  plain,  that,  they  had 
more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them  ;  yet  what- 
ever they  might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prose- 
cute the  scheme  of  Farmer  Williams,  who,  from 
my  daughter's  first  appearance  in  the  country,  had 
paid  her  his  addresses. 


CHAPTER  XT  II. 

Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  the  power  of  long  and  pleasing 
Temptation. 

As  I  only  studied  my  child's  real  happiness,  the 
assiduity  of  Mr.  Williams  pleased  me,  as  he  was 
in  easy  circumstances,  prudent,  and  sincere.  It 
required  but  very  little  encouragement  to  revive  his 
former  passion ;  so  that  in  an  evening  or  two  he 
and  Mr.  Thornhill  met  at  our  house,  and  surveyed 
each  other  for  some  time  with  looks  of  anger;  but 
Williams  owed  his  landlord  no  rent,  and  little  re- 
garded his  indignation.  Olivia  on  her  side,  acted 
the  coquette  to  perfection,  if  that  might  be  called 
acting  which  was  her  real  character,  pretending  to 

8 


116 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


lavish  all  her  tenderness  on  her  new  lover.  Mr. 
Thornhill  appeared  quite  dejected  at  this  preference, 
and  with  a  pensive  air  took  leave,  though  I  own  it 
puzzled  me  to  find  him  so  much  in  pain  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be,  when  he  had  it  in  his  power  so  easily 
to  remove  the  cause,  by  declaring  an  honourable 
passion.  But  whatever  uneasiness  he  seemed  to 
endure,  it  could  easily  be  perceived  that  Olivia's 
anguish  was  still  greater.  After  any  of  these 
interviews  between  her  lovers,  of  which  there  were 
several,  she  usually  retired  to  solitude,  and  there 
indulged  her  grief.  It  was  in  such  a  situation  I 
found  her  one  evening,  after  she  had  been  for  some 
time  supporting  a  fictitious  gaiety.  "  You  now  see, 
my  child/'  said  I,  "  that  your  confidence  in  Mr. 
Thornhill's  passion  was  all  a  dream  :  he  permits 
the  rivalry  of  another,  every  way  his  inferior, 
though  he  knows  it  lies  in  his  power  to  secure  you 
to  himself  by  a  candid  declaration." — "  Yes,  papa," 
returned  she,  "  but  he  has  his  reasons  for  this  delay, 
I  know  he  has.  The  sincerity  of  his  looks  and 
words  convinces  me  of  his  real  esteem.  A  short 
time,  I  hope,  will  discover  the  generosity  of  his 
sentiments,  and  convince  you  that  my  opinion  of 
him  has  been  more  just  than  yours." — "  Olivia,  my 
darling,"  returned  I,  "every  scheme  that  has  been 
hitherto  pursued  to  compel  him  to  a  declaration, 
has  been  proposed  and  planned  by  yourself,  nor  can 
you  in  the  least  say  that  I  have  constrained  you, 


YICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


117 


But  you  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  I  will  be 
instrumental  in  suffering  his  honest  rival  to  be  the 
dupe  of  your  ill-placed  passion.  Whatever  time 
you  require  to  bring  your  fancied  admirer  to  an 
explanation,  shall  be  granted  ;  but  at  the  expiration 
of  that  term,  if  he  is  still  regardless,  I  must  abso- 
lutely insist  that  honest  Mr.  Williams  shall  be  re- 
warded for  his  fidelity.  The  character  which  I 
have  hitherto  supported  in  life  demands  this  from 
me,  and  my  tenderness  as  a  parent  shall  never  in- 
fluence my  integrity  as  a  man.  Name  then  your 
day;  let  it  be  as  distant  as  you  think  proper;  and 
in  the  meantime  take  care  to  let  Mr.  Thorn  hill 
know  the  exact  time  on  which  I  design  delivering 
you  up  to  another.  If  he  really  loves  you,  his  own 
good  sense  will  readily  suggest  that  there  is  but 
one  method  alone  to  prevent  his  losing  you  for 
ever."— This  proposal,  which  she  could  not  avoid 
considering  as  perfectly  just,  was  readily  agreed  to. 
She  again  renewed  her  most  positive  promise  of 
marrying  Mr.  Williams  in  case  of  the  other's  in- 
sensibility ;  and  at  the  next  opportunity,  in  Mr. 
Thornhill's  presence,  that  day  month  was  fixed 
upon  for  her  nuptials  with  his  rival. 

Such  vigorous  proceedings  seemed  to  redouble 
Mr.  Thornhill's  anxiety :  but  what  Olivia  really 
felt  gave  me  some  uneasiness.  In  this  struggle  be- 
tween prudence  and  passion,  her  vivacity  quite 
forsook  her,  and  every  opportunity  of  solitude  was 


118  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

sought  and  spent  in  tears.  One  week  passed  away; 
but  Mr.  Thornhill  made  no  effort  to  restrain  her 
nuptials.  The  succeeding  week  he  was  still  assi- 
duous ;  but  not  more  open.  On  the  third  he  dis- 
continued his  visits  entirely,  and  instead  of  my 
daughter  testifying  any  impatience,  as  I  expected, 
she  seemed  to  retain  a  pensive  tranquillity,  which 
I  looked  upon  as  resignation.  For  my  own  part, 
I  was  now  sincerely  pleased  with  thinking  that  my 
child  was  going  to  be  secured  in  a  continuance  of 
competence  and  peace,  and  frequently  applauded 
her  resolution,  in  preferring  happiness  to  ostenta- 
tion. 

It  was  within  about  four  days  of  her  intended 
nuptial,  that  my  little  family  at  night  were  ga- 
thered round  a  charming  fire,  telling  stories  of  the 
past,  and  laying  schemes  for  the  future;  busied  in 
forming  a  thousand  projects,  and  laughing  at  what- 
ever folly  came  uppermost.  "  Well,  Moses,"  cried 
I,  "  we  shall  soon,  my  boy,  have  a  wedding  in  the 
family;  what  is  your  opinion  of  matters  and  things 
in  general  ?" — u  My  opinion,  father,  is,  that  all 
things  go  on  very  well;  and  I  was  just  now  think- 
ing, that  when  sister  Livy  is  married  to  Farmer 
Williams,  we  shall  then  have  the  loan  of  his  cider 
press  and  brewing  tubs  for  nothing." — "  That  we 
shall,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "  and  he  will  sing  us  Death 
and  the  Lady,  to  raise  our  spirits,  into  the  bargain." 
A  He  has  taught  that  song  to  our  Dick,"  cried 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


119 


Moses,  "  and  I  think  he  goes  through  it  very  pret- 
tily." Does  he  so  ?"  cried  I,  "  then  let  us  have  it : 
where's  little  Dick  ?  let  him  up  with  it  boldly." — 
"  My  brother  Dick/'  cried  Bill,  my  youngest,  "  is 
just  gone  out  with  sister  Livy ;  but  Mr.  Williams 
has  taught  me  two  songs,  and  I'll  sing  them  for 
you,  papa.  Which  song  do  you  choose,  The  dying 
Swan,  or  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  ?" 
"  The  elegy,  child,  by  all  means,"  said  I;  "  I  never 
heard  that  yet ;  and  Deborah,  my  life,  grief,  you 
know,  is  dry,  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  goose- 
berry wine  to  keep  up  our  spirits.  I  have  wept  so 
much  at  all  sorts  of  elegies  of  late,  that,  without 
an  enlivening  glass,  I  am  sure  this  will  overcome 
me ;  and  Sophy,  love,  take  your  guitar,  and  thrum 
in  with  the  boy  a  little." 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

»  Good  people  all  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 


120 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets, 

The  wondering  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

* 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied, — 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

"  A  very  good  boy.  Bill,  upon  my  word,  and  an 
elegy  that  may  truly  be  called  tragical.  Come,  my 
children,  here's  Bill's  health,  and  may  he  one  day 
be  a  bishop  !" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  my  wife  ;  "  and  if  he 
but  preaches  as  well  as  he  sings,  I  make  no  doubt 
of  him.  The  most  of  his  family,  by  the  mother  s 
side,  could  sing  a  good  song :  it  was  a  common  say- 
ing in  our  country,  that  the  family  of  the  Blenkin- 
eops  could  never  look  straight  before  them,  nor  the 
flugginsons  blow  out  a  candle ;  that  there  were 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


121 


none  of  the  Grograrns  but  could  sing  a  song,  or  of 
Marjorams  but  could  tell  a  story." — "  However  that 
be,  "  cried  I,  "  the  most  vulgar  ballad  of  them  all 
generally  pleases  me  better  than  the  fine  modern 
odes,  and  things  that  petrify  us  in  a  single  stanza ; 
productions  that  we  at  once  detest  and  praise.  Put 
the  glass  to  your  brother,  Moses.  The  great  fault 
of  these  elegiasts  is,  that  they  are  in  despair  for 
griefs  that  gives  the  sensible  part  of  mankind  very 
little  pain.  A  lady  loses  her  muff,  her  fan,  or  her 
lap-dog,  and  so  the  silly  poet  runs » home  to  versify 
the  disaster." 

"  That  may  be  the  mode,"  cried  Moses,  "  in  subli- 
mer  compositions ;  but  the  Eanelagh  songs  that 
come  down  to  us  are  perfectly  familiar,  and  all  cast 
in  the  same  mould  :  Colin  meets  Dolly,  and  they 
hold  a  dialogue  together  ;  he  gives  her  a  fairing  to 
put  in  her  hair,  and  she  presents  him  with  a  nose- 
gay ;  and  then  they  go  together  to  church,  where 
they  give  good  advice  to  young  nymphs  and  swains 
to  get  married  as  fast  as  they  can." 

"And  very  good  advice  too,"  cried  I;  uand  1  am 
told  there  is  not  a  place  in  the  world  where  advice 
can  be  given  with  so  much  propriety  as  there ;  for 
as  it  persuades  us  to  marry,  it  also  furnishes  us  with 
a  wife :  and  surely  that  must  be  an  excellent  market, 
my  boy,  where  we  are  told  what  we  want,  and  sup- 
plied with  it  when  wanting." 

"  Yes;  sir,"  returned  Moses,  "  and  I  know  of  but 


122 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


two  such  markets  for  wives  in  Europe,  Ranelagh  m 
England,  and  Fontarabia  in  Spain.  The  Spanish 
market  is  open  once  a  year ;  but  our  English  wives 
are  saleable  every  night." 

"  You  are  right,  my  boy,"  cried  his  mother ;  "  Old 
England  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  husbands 
to  get  wives." — "  And  for  wives  to  manage  their 
husbands,"  interrupted  I.  "  It  is  a  proverb  abroad, 
that  if  a  bridge  were  built  across  the  sea,  all  the 
ladies  of  the  continent  would  come  over  to  take 
pattern  from  ours;  for  there  are  no  such  wives  in 
Europe  as  our  own.  But  let  us  have  one  bottle 
more,  Deborah,  my  life ;  and  Moses,  give  us  a  good 
song.  What  thanks  do  we  not  owe  to  Heaven  for 
thus  bestowing  tranquillity,  health,  and  competence. 
I  think  myself  happier  now  than  the  greatest  mon- 
arch upon  earth.  He  has  no  such  fire-side,  nor 
such  pleasant  faces  about  it.  Yes,  Deborah,  we 
are  now  growing  old  ;  but  the  evening  of  our  life 
is  likely  to  be  happy.  We  are  descended  from  an- 
cestors that  knew  no  stain,  and  we  shall  leave  a 
good  and  virtuous  race  of  children  behind  us. 
While  we  live,  they  will  be  our  support  and  our 
pleasure  here  ;  and  when  we  die,  they  will  trans- 
mit our  honour  untainted  to  posterity.  Come,  my 
son,  we  wait  for  a  song :  let  us  have  a  chorus.  But 
where  is  my  darling  Olivia  ?  That  little  cherub's 
voice  is  always  sweetest  in  the  concert." — J ust  as  I 
spoke,  Dick  came  running  in,  "  0  papa,  papa,  she 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


123 


is  gone  from  us,  she  is  gone  from  us;  my  sister  Livy 
is  gone  from  us  for  ever." — "  Gone,  child !"  "Yes, 
she  is  gone  off  with  two  gentlemen  in  a  postchaise, 
and  one  of  them  kissed  her,  and  said  he  would  die 
for  her:  and  she  cried  very  much,  and  was  for 
coming  back;  but  he  persuaded  her  again,  and  she 
went  into  the  chaise,  and  said,  0  what  will  my  poor 
papa  do  when  he  knows  I  am  undone !"  "  Now 
then,"  cried  I,  "  my  children,  go  and  be  miserable ; 
for  we  shall  never  enjoy  one  hour  more.  And  0, 
may  Heaven's  everlasting  fury  light  upon  him  and 
his  ! — Thus  to  rob  me  of  my  child  ! — And  sure  it 
will,  for  taking  back  my  sweet  innocent  that  I  was 
leading  up  to  Heaven.  Such  sincerity  as  my  child 
was  possessed  of! — But  all  our  earthly  happiness 
is  now  over  !  Go,  my  children,  go  and  be  misera- 
ble and  infamous :  for  my  heart  is  broken  within 
me  !" — "  Father,"  cried  my  son,  "  is  this  your  for- 
titude ?" — "  Fortitude,  child  !  Yes,  he  shall  see  I 
have  fortitude  !  Bring  me  my  pistols.  I'll  pursue 
the  traitor  :  while  he  is  on  earth  I'll  pursue  him. 
Old  as  I  am  he  shall  find  I  can  sting  him  yet.  The 
villain  !  The  perfidious  villain  !"  I  had  by  this 
time  reached  down  my  pistols,  when  my  poor  wife, 
whose  passions  were  not  so  strong  as  mine,  caught 
me  in  her  arms.  "  My  dearest,  dearest  husband," 
cried  she,  "the  Bible  is  the  only  weapon  that  is  fit 
for  jour  old  hands  now.  Open  that,  my  love,  and 
read  our  anguish  into  patience,  for  she  has  vilely 


124 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


deceived  us." — "Indeed,  sir/'  resumed  my  son,  aftet 
a  pause,  "  your  rage  is  too  violent  and  unbecoming. 
You  should  be  my  mother's  comforter,  and  you  in- 
crease her  pain.  It  ill  suited  you  and  your  reverend 
character,  thus  to  curse  your  greatest  enemy  :  you 
should  not  have  cursed  him,  villain  as  he  is." — "  I 
did  not  curse  him,  child,  did  I?" — " Indeed,  sir, 
you  did ;  you  cursed  him  twice." — "  Then  may 
Heaven  forgive  me  and  him  if  I  did !  And  now, 
my  son,  I  see  it  was  more  than  human  benevolence 
that  first  taught  us  to  bless  our  enemies  !  Blessed 
be  his  holy  name  for  all  the  good  he  hath  given, 
and  for  all  that  he  hath  taken  away.  But  it  is  not 
— it  is  not  a  small  distress  that  can  wring  tears  from 
these  old  eyes,  that  have  not  wept  for  so  many 
years.  My  child  ! — To  undo  my  darling  ! — May 
confusion  seize — Heaven  forgive  me,  what  am  I 
about  to  say ! — You  may  remember,  my  love,  how 
good  she  was,  and  how  charming ;  till  this  vile 
moment,  all  her  care  was  to  make  us  happy.  Had 
she  but  died  ! — But  she  is  gone,  the  honour  of  our 
family  contaminated,  and  I  must  look  out  for  hap- 
piness in  other  worlds  than  here.  But,  my  child, 
you  saw  them  go  off :  perhaps  he  forced  her  away? 
If  he  forced  her,  she  may  yet  be  innocent." — "Ah 
no,  sir,"  cried  the  child;  "he  only  kissed  her,  and 
called  her  his  angel,  and  she  wept  very  much,  and 
leaned  upon  his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  very  fast." 
— "  She's  an  ungrateful  creature,"  cried  my  wife, 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


125 


who  could  scarcely  speak  for  weeping,  "  to  use  us 
thus.  She  never  had  the  least  constraint  put  upon 
her  affections.  The  vile  strumpet  has  basely  de- 
serted her  parents  without  any  provocation — thus 
to  bring  your  gray  hairs  to  the  grave,  and  I  must 
shortly  follow." 

In  this  manner  that  night,  the  first  of  our  real 
misfortunes,  was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  com- 
plaint, and  ill-supported  sallies  of  enthusiasm.  I 
determined,  however,  to  find  out  our  betrayer, 
wherever  he  was,  and  reproach  his  baseness.  The 
next  morning  we  missed  our  wretched  child  at 
breakfast,  where  she  used  to  give  life  and  cheer- 
fulness to  us  all.  My  wife,  as  before,  attempted  to 
ease  her  heart  by  reproaches.  "  Never,"  cried  she, 
a  shall  that  vilest  stain  of  our  family  again  darken 
these  harmless  doors.  I  will  never  call  her  daugh- 
ter more.  No,  let  the  strumpet  live  with  her  vile 
seducer :  she  may  bring  us  to  shame,  but  she  shall 
never  more  deceive  us." 

"  Wife,"  said  I,  "  do  not  talk  thus  hardly :  my 
detestation  of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours ;  but 
ever  shall  this  house  and  this  heart  be  open  to  a 
poor  returning  repentant  sinner.  The  sooner  she 
returns  from  her  transgressions,  the  more  welcome 
shall  she  be  to  me.  For  the  first  time  the  very 
best  may  err;  art  may  persuade,  and  novelty  spread 
out  its  charms.  The  first  fault  is  the  child  of  sim- 
plicity, but  every  other  the  offspring  of  guilt.  Yes, 


126 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


the  wretched  creature  shall  be  welcome  to  this 
heart  and  this  house,  though  stained  with  ten 
thousand  vices.  I  will  again  hearken  to  the  music 
of  her  voice,  again  will  I  hang  fondly  on  her 
bosom,  if  I  find  but  repentance  there.  My  son, 
bring  hither  my  Bible  and  my  staff :  I  will  pursue 
her,  wherever  she  is ;  and  though  I  cannot  save  her 
from  shame,  I  may  prevent  the  continuance  of 
iniquity." 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  Pursuit  of  a  Father  to  reclaim  a  lost  Child  to  Virtue . 

Though  the  child  could  not  describe  the  gentle- 
man's person  who  handed  his  sister  into  the  post- 
chaise,  yet  my  suspicions  fell  entirely  upon  our 
young  landlord,  whose  character  for  such  intrigues 
was  but  too  well  known.  I  therefore  directed  my 
steps  towards  Thornh ill-castle,  resolving  to  upbraid 
him,  and,  if  possible,  to  bring  back  my  daughter : 
but  before  I  had  reached  his  seat,  I  was  met  by 
one  of  my  parishioners,  who  said  he  saw  a  young 
lady,  resembling  my  daughter,  in  a  postchaise  with 
a  gentleman,  whom  by  the  description,  I  could  only 
guess  to  be  Mr.  Burchell,  and  that  they  drove  very 
fast.  This  information,  however,  did  by  no  means 
satisfy  me.  I  therefore  went  to  the  young  'Squire's, 
and  though  it  was  yet  early,  insisted  upon  seeing 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


127 


him  immediately.  He  soon  appeared  with  the 
most  open,  familiar  air,  and  seemed  perfectly 
amazed  at  my  daughter's  elopement,  protesting 
upon  his  honour  that  he  was  quite  a  stranger  to  it. 
I  now  therefore  condemned  my  former  suspicions, 
and  could  turn  them  only  on  Mr.  Burchell,  who  1 
recollected  had  of  late  several  private  conferences 
with  her :  but  the  appearance  of  another  witness 
left  me  no  room  to  doubt  his  villainy,  who  averred, 
that  he  and  my  daughter  were  actually  gone  to- 
wards the  Wells,  about  thirty  miles  off,  where  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  company.  Being  driven  to  that 
state  of  mind  in  which  we  are  more  ready  to  act 
precipitately  than  to  reason  right,  I  never  debated 
with  myself,  whether  these  accounts  might  not 
have  been  given  by  persons  purposely  placed  in  my 
way  to  mislead  me,  but  resolved  to  pursue  my 
daughter  and  her  fancied  deluder  thither.  I 
walked  along  with  earnestness,  and  inquired  of 
several  by  the  way ;  but  received  no  accounts,  till, 
entering  the  town,  I  was  met  by  a  person  on  horse- 
back, whom  I  remembered  to  have  seen  at  the 
'Squire's,  and  he  assured  me,  that  if  I  followed 
them  to  the  races,  which  were  but  thirty  miles 
farther,  I  might  depend  upon  overtaking  them ;  for 
he  had  seen  them  dance  there  the  night  before, 
and  the  whole  assembly  seemed  charmed  with  my 
daughters  performance.  Early  the  next  day,  I 
walked  forward  to  the  races,  and  about  four  in  the 


128 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD- 


afternoon  I  came  upon  the  course.  The  company 
made  a  very  brilliant  appearance,  all  earnestly  em- 
ployed in  one  pursuit,  that  of  pleasure :  how  dif- 
ferent from  mine,  that  of  reclaiming  a  lost  child  to 
virtue !  I  thought  I  perceived  Mr.  Burchell  at 
some  distance  from  me ;  but  as  if  he  dreaded  an 
interview,  upon  my  approaching  him,  he  mixed 
among  a  crowd,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  I  now 
reflected  that  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  continue 
my  pursuit  farther,  and  resolved  to  return  home  to 
an  innocent  family,  who  wanted  my  assistance. 
But  the  agitations  of  my  mind,  and  the  fatigues  I 
had  undergone,  threw  me  into  a  fever,  the  symp- 
toms of  which  I  perceived  before  I  came  off  the 
course.  This  was  another  unexpected  stroke,  as  I 
was  more  than  seventy  miles  distant  from  home : 
however,  I  retired  to  a  little  ale-house  by  the  road- 
side, and  in  this  place,  the  usual  retreat  of  indigence 
and  frugality,  I  laid  me  down  patiently  to  wait  the 
issue  of  my  disorder.  I  languished  here  for  nearly 
three  weeks ;  but  at  last  my  constitution  prevailed, 
though  I  was  unprovided  with  money  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  my  entertainment.  It  is  possible  the 
anxiety  from  this  last  circumstance  alone  might 
have  brought  on  a  relapse,  had  I  not  been  supplied 
by  a  traveller,  who  stopped  to  take  a  cursory  re- 
freshment. This  person  was  no  other  than  the 
philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard, 
who  has  written  so  many  little  books  for  children  ; 


VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD.  129 

he  called  himself  their  friend;  but  he  was  the 
friend  of  all  mankind.  He  was  no  sooner  alighted, 
but  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone  ;  for  he  was  ever 
on  business  of  the  utmost  importance,  and  was  at 
that  time  actually  compiling  materials  for  the  his- 
tory of  one  Mr.  Thomas  Trip.  I  immediately 
recollected  this  good-natured  man's  red-pimpled 
face;  for*  he  had  published  for  me  against  the 
Deuterogamists  of  the  age,  and  from  him  I  bor- 
rowed a  few  pieces  to  be  paid  at  my  return.  Leav- 
ing the  inn.  therefore,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  1 
resolved  to  return  home  by  easy  journeys  of  ten 
miles  a  day.  My  health  and  usual  tranquillity  were 
almost  restored,  and  I  now  condemned  that  pride 
which  had  made  me  refractory  to  the  hand  of  cor- 
rection. Man  little  knows  what  calamities  are 
beyond  his  patience  to  bear,  till  he  tries  them :  as 
in  ascending  the  heights  of  ambition,  which  look 
bright  from  below,  every  step  we  rise  shows  us 
some  new  and  gloomy  prospect  of  hidden  disap- 
pointment ;  so  in  our  descent  from  the  summits  of 
pleasure,  though  the  vale  of  misery  below  may 
appear  at  first  dark  and  gloomy,  yet  the  busy  mind, 
still  attentive  to  its  own  amusement,  finds,  as  we 
descend,  something  to  flatter  and  to  please.  Still, 
as  we  approach,  the  darkest  objects  appear  to 
brighten,  and  the  mental  eye  becomes  adapted  to 
its  gloomy  situation. 

I  now  proceeded  forward,  and  had  walked  about 


330 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


two  hours,  when  I  perceived  what  appeared  at  a 
distance  like  a  wagon,  which  I  was  resolved  to 
overtake ;  but  when  I  came  up  with  it,  found  it  to 
he  a  strolling  company's  cart,  that  was  carrying 
their  scenes  and  other  theatrical  furniture  to  the 
next  village,  where  they  were  to  exhibit.  The 
cart  was  attended  only  by  the  person  who  drove  it, 
and  one  of  the  company,  as  the  rest  of  the  players 
were  to  follow  the  ensuing  day.  "  Good  company 
upon  the  road,"  says  the  proverb,  "  is  the  shortest 
cut."  I  therefore  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  poor  player ;  and  as  I  once  had  some  theatrical 
powers  myself,  I  disserted  upon  such  topics  with 
my  usual  freedom  :  but  as  I  was  pretty  much  un- 
acquainted with  the  present  state  of  the  stage,  I 
demanded  who  were  the  present  theatrical  writers 
in  vogue,  who  the  Drydens  and  Otways  of  the  day  ? 
— "  I  fancy,  sir,"  cried  the  player,  "  few  of  our 
modern  dramatists  would  think  themselves  much 
honoured  by  being  compared  to  the  writers  you 
mention.  Drydens  and  Rowe's  manner,  sir,  are 
quite  out  of  fashion ;  our  taste  has  gone  back  a 
whole  century ;  Fletcher,  Ben  J onson,  and  all  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  are  the  only  things  that  go 
down." — "  How,"  cried  I,  "  is  it  possible  the  present 
age  can  be  pleased  with  that  antiquated  dialect, 
that  obsolete  humor,  those  over-charged  characters, 
which  abound  in  the  works  you  mention  ?" — "  Sir," 
returned  my  companion,  "  the  public  think  nothing 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


131 


about  dialect,  or  humor,  or  character,  for  that  in 
none  of  their  business  ;  they  only  go  to  be  amused, 
and  find  themselves  happy  when  they  can  enjoy  a 
pantomime,  under  the  sanction  of  Jonson's  or 
Shakspeare's  name." — "  So  then,  I  suppose,"  cried 
I,  "  that  our  modern  dramatists  are  rather  imitators 
of  Shakspeare  than  of  nature." — "  To  say  the 
truth,"  returned  my  companion,  "  I  don't  know  that 
they  imitate  any  thing  at  all ;  nor  indeed  does  the 
public  require  it  of  them  :  it  is  not  the  composition 
of  the  piece,  but  the  number  of  starts  and  attitudes 
that  may  be  introduced  into  it,  that  elicits  applause. 
I  have  known  a  piece  with  not  one  jest  in  the  whole, 
shrugged  into  popularity,  and  another  saved  by  the 
poet's  throwing  in  a  fit  of  the  gripes.  No,  sir,  the 
works  of  Congreve  and  Farquhar  have  too  much  wit 
in  them  for  the  present  taste :  our  modern  dialect 
is  much  more  natural." 

By  this  time  the  equipage  of  the  strolling  com- 
pany was  arrived  at  the  village,  which,  it  seems, 
had  been  apprised  of  our  approach,  and  was  come 
out  to  gaze  at  us;  for  my  companion  observed,  that 
strollers  always  have  more  spectators  without  doors 
than  within.  I  did  not  consider  the  impropriety 
of  my  being  in  such  company,  till  I  saw  a  mob 
gather  about  me.  I  therefore  took  shelter,  as  fast 
as  possible,  in  the  first  ale  house  that  offered,  and 
being  shown  into  the  common  room,  was  accosted 
by  a  very  well  dressed  gentleman,  who  demanded 

9 


132 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD 


whether  I  was  the  real  chaplain  of  the  company, 
or  whether  it  was  only  to  be  my  masquerade  cha- 
racter in  the  play.  Upon  my  informing  him  of  the 
truth,  and  that  I  did  not  belong  in  any  sort  to  the 
company,  he  was  condescending  enough  to  desire 
rne  and  the  player  to  partake  in  a  bowl  of  punch, 
over  which  he  discussed  modern  politics  with  great 
earnestness  and  interest.  I  set  him  down  in  my 
own  mind  for  nothing  less  than  a  parliament-man  at 
least;  but  was  almost  confirmed  in  my  conjectures, 
when,  upon  asking  what  there  was  in  the  house  for 
supper,  he  insisted  that  the  player  and  I  should 
sup  with  him  at  his  house :  with  which  request, 
after  some  entreaties,  we  were  prevailed  on  to 
comply. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


The  description  of  a  Person  discontented  with  the  present  Govern- 
ment and  apprehensive  of  the  loss  of  our  Liberties. 

The  house  where  we  were  to  be  entertained  lying 
at  a  small  distance  from  the  village,  our  inviter  ob- 
served, that  as  the  coach  was  not  ready,  he  wouV 
conduct  us  on  foot ;  and  we  soon  arrived  at  one 
of  the  most  magnificent  mansions  I  had  seen  in 
that  part  of  the  country.  The  apartment  into 
which  we  were  shown  was  perfectly  elegant  and 
modern ;  he  went  to  give  orders  for  supper,  while 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


133 


the  player,  with  a  wink,  observed  that  we  were  per- 
fectly in  luck.  Our  entertainer  soon  returned ;  an 
elegant  supper  was  brought  in,  two  or  three  ladies 
in  dishabille  were  introduced,  and  the  conversation 
began  with  some  sprightliness.  Politics,  however, 
was  the  subject  on  which  our  entertainer  chiefly 
expatiated ;  for  he  asserted  that  liberty  was  at  once 
his  boast  and  his  terror.  After  the  cloth  was  re- 
moved, he  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  last  Monitor  ? 
to  which  replying  in  the  negative,  "  What,  nor  the 
Auditor,  I  suppose  ?"  cried  he.  "  Neither,  sir,"  re- 
turned I.  "  That's  strange,  very  strange,"  replied 
my  entertainer.  "  Now  I  read  all  the  politics  that 
come  out.  The  Daily,  the  Public,  the  Ledger,  the 
Chronicle,  the  London  Evening,  the  Whitehall 
Evening,  the  seventeen  Magazines,  and  the  two 
Reviews ;  and  though  they  hate  each  other,  I  love 
them  all.  Liberty,  sir,  liberty,  is  the  Briton's  boast, 
and  by  all  my  coal-mines  in  Cornwall,  I  reverence 
its  guardians." — "  Then  it  is  to  be  hoped,"  cried  I, 
"  you  reverence  the  king." — "  Yes,"  returned  my 
entertainer,  "  when  he  does  what  we  would  have 
him ;  but  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has  done  of  late,  I'll 
never  trouble  myself  more  with  his  matters.  I  say 
nothing.  I  think,  only,  I  could  have  directed  some 
things  better.  I  don't  think  there  has  been  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  advisers :  he  should  advise  with 
every  person  willing  to  give  him  advice,  and  then 
we  should  have  things  done  in  another  guess 
manner."' 


134 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFILLD. 


"I  wish,"  cried  I,  "that  such  intruding  advisers 
were  fixed  in  the  pillory.  It  should  be  the  duty 
of  honest  men  to  assist  the  weaker  side  of  our  con- 
stitution, that  sacred  power  which  has  for  some 
years  been  every  day  declining,  and  losing  its  due 
share  of  influence  in  the  state.  But  these  igno- 
rants  still  continue  the  same  cry  of  liberty ;  and  if 
they  have  any  wreight,  basely  throw  it  into  the 
subsiding  scale." 

"  How/'  cried  one  of  the  ladies,  "  do  I  live  to  see 
one  so  base,  so  sordid,  as  to  be  an  enemy  to  liberty, 
and  a  defender  of  tyrants  ?  Liberty,  that  sacred 
gift  of  Heaven,  that  glorious  privilege  of  Britons  ?" 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  cried  our  entertainer,  "  that 
there  should  be  any  found  at  present  advocates  for 
slavery  ?  Any  who  are  for  meanly  giving  up  the 
privilege  of  Britons  ?    Can  any,  sir,  be  so  abject  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  I  am  for  liberty,  that  attri- 
bute of  God !  Glorious  liberty  !  that  theme  of  modern 
declamation.  I  would  have  all  men  kings.  I  would 
be  a  king  myself.  We  have  all  naturally  an  equal 
right  to  the  throne :  we  are  all  originally  equal. 
This  is  my  opinion,  and  was  once  the  opinion  of  a 
set  of  honest  men  who  were  called  Levellers.  They 
tried  to  erect  themselves  into  a  community  where 
all  would  be  equally  free.  But,  alas!  it  would 
never  answer;  for  there  were  some  among  them 
stronger,  and  some  more  cunning  than  others,  and 
these  became  masters  of  the  rest;  for  as  sure  as 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


135 


your  groom  rides  your  horses,  because  he  is  a  cun- 
ninger  animal  than  they,  so  surely  will  the  animal 
that  is  cunninger  and  stronger  than  he,  sit  upon 
his  shoulders  in  turn.  Since  then  it  is  entailed 
upon  humanity  to  submit,  and  some  are  born  to 
command,  and  others  to  obey,  the  question  is,  as 
there  must  be  tyrants,  whether  it  is  better  to  have 
them  in  the  same  house  with  us,  or  in  the  same 
village,  or  still  farther  off,  in  the  metropolis.  Now, 
sir,  for  my  own  part,  as  I  naturally  hate  the  face 
of  a  tyrant,  the  farther  off  he  is  removed  from  me, 
the  better  pleased  am  I.  The  generality  of  man- 
kind also  are  of  my  way  -of  thinking,  and  have 
unanimously  created  one  king,  whose  election  at 
once  diminishes  the  number  of  tyrants,  and  puts 
tyranny  at  the  greatest  distance  from  the  greatest 
number  of  people.  Now  the  great,  who  were  ty- 
rants themselves  before  the  election  of  one  tyrant, 
are  naturally  averse  to  a  power  raised  over  them, 
and  whose  weight  must  ever  lean  heaviest  on  the 
subordinate  orders.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great, 
therefore,  to  diminish  kingly  power  as  much  as 
possible ;  because  whatever  they  take  from  that,  is 
naturally  restored  to  themselves ;  and  all  they  have 
to  do  in  the  state,  is  to  undermine  the  single  tyrant, 
by  which  they  resume  their  primeval  authority. 
Now  the  state  may  be  so  circumstanced,  or  its  laws 
may  be  so  disposed,  or  its  men  of  opulence  so 
minded,  as  all  to  conspire  in  carrying  on  this  bu- 


136 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


siness  of  undermining  monarchy.  For  in  the  first 
place,  if  the  circumstances  of  our  state  be  such  as 
to  favor  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  make  the 
opulent  still  more  rich,  this  will  increase  their  am- 
bition. An  accumulation  of  wealth,  however,  must 
necessarily  be  the  consequence,  when  as  at  present 
more  riches  flow  in  from  external  commerce,  than 
arise  from  internal  industry  ;  for  external  com- 
merce can  only  be  managed  to  advantage  by  the 
rich,  and  they  have  also  at  the  same  time  all  the 
emoluments  arising  from  internal  industry;  so  that 
the  rich,  with  us,  have  two  sources  of  wealth, 
whereas  the  poor  have  but  one.  For  this  reason, 
wealth,  in  all  commercial  states,  is  found  to  accu- 
mulate, and  all  such  have  hitherto  in  time  become 
aristocratical.  Again,  the  very  laws  also  of  this 
country  may  contribute  to  the  accumulation  of 
wealth ;  as  when,  by  their  means,  the  natural  ties 
that  bind  the  rich  and  poor  together  are  broken, 
and  it  is  ordained,  that  the  rich  shall  only  marry 
with  the  rich ;  or  when  the  learned  are  held  un- 
qualified to  serve  their  country  as  counsellors, 
merely  from  a  defect  of  opulence,  and  wealth  is 
thus  made  the  object  of  a  wise  man's  ambition ;  by 
these  means,  I  say,  and  such  means  as  these,  riches 
will  accumulate.  Now,  the  possessor  of  accumu- 
lated wealth,  when  furnished  with  the  necessaries 
and  pleasures  of  life,  has  no  other  method  to  em- 
ploy the  superfluity  of  his  fortune  but  in  purchas- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


137 


ing  power.  That  is,  differently  speaking,  in  making 
dependents,  by  purchasing  the  liberty  of  the  needy 
or  the  venal,  of  men  who  are  willing  to  bear  the 
mortification  of  contiguous  tyranny  for  bread. 
Thus  each  very  opulent  man  generally  gathers 
round  him  a  circle  of  the  poorest  of  the  people ; 
and  the  polity  abounding  in  accumulated  wealth, 
may  be  compared  to  a  Cartesian  system,  each  orb 
with  a  vortex  of  its  own.  Those,  however,  who 
are  willing  to  move  in  a  great  man's  vortex,  are 
only  such  as  must  be  slaves,  the  rabble  of  mankind, 
whose  souls  and  whose  education  are  adapted  to 
servitude,  and  who  know  nothing  of  liberty  except 
the  name.  But  there  must  still  be  a  large  number 
of  the  people  without  the  sphere  of  the  opulent 
man's  influence,  namely,  that  order  of  men  which 
subsists  between  the  very  rich  and  the  very  rabble  ; 
those  men  who  are  possessed  of  too  large  fortunes 
to  submit  to  the  neighbouring  man  in  power,  and 
yet  are  too  poor  to  set  up  for  tyranny  themselves. 
In  this  middle  order  of  mankind  are  generally  to 
be  found  all  the  arts,  wisdom,  and  virtues  of  society. 
This  order  alone  is  known  to  be  the  true  preserver 
of  freedom,  and  may  be  called  the  people.  Now  it 
may  happen  that  this  middle  order  of  mankind 
may  lose  all  its  influence  in  a  state,  and  its  voice 
be  in  a  manner  drowned  in  that  of  the  rabble  :  for 
if  the  fortune  sufficient  for  qualifying  a  person  at 
present  to  give  his  voice  in  state  affairs  be  tea 


138 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


times  less  than  was  judged  sufficient  upon  forming 
the  constitution,  it  is  evident  that  greater  numbers 
of  the  rabble  will  be  thus  introduced  into  the  po- 
litical system,  and  they  ever  moving  in  the  vortex 
of  the  great,  will  follow  where  greatness  shall 
direct.  In  such  a  state,  therefore,  all  that  the 
middle  order  has  left,  is  to  preserve  the  prerogatives 
and  privileges  of  the  one  principal  governor  with 
the  most  sacred  circumspection.  For  he  divides 
the  power  of  the  rich,  and  calls  off  the  great  from 
falling  with  tenfold  weight  on  the  middle  order 
placed  beneath  them.  The  middle  order  may  be 
compared  to  a  town,  of  which  the  opulent  are 
forming  the  siege,  and  of  which  the  governor  from 
without  is  hastening  the  relief.  While  the  be- 
siegers are  in  dread  of  an  enemy  over  them,  it  is 
but  natural  to  offer  the  townsmen  the  most  specious 
terms ;  to  flatter  them  with  sounds,  and  amuse  them 
with  privileges  ;  but  if  they  once  defeat  the  governor 
from  behind,  the  walls  of  the  town  will  be  but  a 
small  defence  to  its  inhabitants.  What  they  may 
then  expect,  may  be  seen  by  turning  our  eyes  to 
Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice,  where  the  laws  govern 
the  poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the  law.  I  am  then 
for,  and  would  die  for  monarchy,  sacred  monarchy; 
for  if  there  be  anything  sacred  amongst  men,  it 
must  be  the  anointed  Sovereign  of  his  people ;  and 
every  diminution  of  his  power  in  Avar,  or  in  peace, 
is  an  infringement  upon  the  real  liberties  of  the 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


139 


subject.  The  sons  of  liberty,  patriotism,  and 
Britons,  have  already  done  much;  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  the  true  sons  of  freedom  will  prevent  their 
ever  doing  more.  I  have  known  many  of  these 
pretended  champions  for  liberty  in  my  time,  yet 
do  I  not  remember  one  that  was  not  in  his  heart 
and  in  his  family  a  tyrant." 

My  warmth  I  found  had  lengthened  this  harangue 
beyond  the  rules  of  good  breeding ;  but  the  impa- 
tience of  my  entertainer,  who  often  strove  to  inter- 
rupt it,  could  be  restrained  no  longer.  "  What," 
cried  he,  "  then  I  have  been  all  this  while  enter- 
taining a  Jesuit  in  parson's  clothes  !  but  by  all  the 
coal-mines  of  Cornwall,  out  he  shall  pack,  if  my 
name  be  Wilkinson."  I  now  found  I  had  gone  too 
far,  and  asked  pardon  for  the  warmth  with  which 
I  had  spoken.  "  Pardon  !"  returned  he,  in  a  fury  : 
"  I  think  such  principles  demand  ten  thousand  par- 
dons. What?  give  up  liberty,  property,  and,  the 
Gazetteer  says,  lie  down  to  be  saddled  with  wooden 
shoes !  sir,  I  insist  upon  }^our  marching  out  of  this 
house  immediately,  to  prevent  worse  consequences : 
sir,  I  insist  upon  it."  I  was  going  to  repeat  my 
remonstrances;  but  just  then  we  heard  &  footman's 
rap  at  the  door,  and  the  two  ladies  cried  out,  "  As 
sure  as  death  there  is  our  master  and  mistress  come 
home."  It  seems  my  entertainer  was  all  this  while 
only  the  butler,  who,  in  his  master's  absence,  had 
a  mind  to  cut  a  figure,  and  be  for  a  while  the  gen- 


140 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD, 


tleman  himself:  and  to  say  the  truth,  he  talked 
politics  as  well  as  most  country  gentlemen  do.  But 
nothing  could  now  exceed  my  confusion  upon  seeing 
the  gentleman  and  his  lady  enter ;  nor  was  their 
surprise  at  finding  such  company  and  good  cheer 
less  than  ours.  "  Gentlemen/'  cried  the  real  mas- 
ter of  the  house  to  me  and  my  companion,  "  my 
wife  and  I  are  your  most  humble  servants ;  but  I 
protest  this  is  so  unexpected  a  favour,  that  we 
almost  sink  under  the  obligation."  However  unex- 
pected our  company  might  be  to  them*  theirs,  I  am 
sure,  was  still  more  so  to  us,  and  I  was  struck 
dumb  with  the  apprehensions  of  my  own  absurdity, 
when  whom  should  I  next  see  enter  the  room  but 
my  dear  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  formerly 
designed  to  be  married  to  my  son  George,  but 
whose  match  was  broken  off  as  already  related. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  flew  to  my  arms  with 
the  utmost  joy. — "My  dear  sir,"  cried  she,  "to 
what  happy  accident  is  it  that  we  owe  so  unex- 
pected a  visit  ?  I  am  sure  my  uncle  and  aunt  will 
be  in  raptures  when  they  find  they  have  the  good 
Dr.  Primrose  for  their  guest."  Upon  hearing  my 
name,  the  old  gentleman  and  lady  very  politely 
stepped  up,  and  welcomed  me  with  the  most  cor- 
dial hospitality.  Nor  could  they  forbear  smiling, 
upon  being  informed  of  the  nature  of  my  present 
visit;  but  the  unfortunate  butler,  whom  they  at 
first  seemed  disposed  to  turn  away,  was  at  my  inter- 
cession forgiven. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


141 


Mr.  Arnold  and  his  lady,  to  whom  the  house  be- 
longed, now  insisted  upon  having  the  pleasure  of 
my  stay  for  some  days;  and  as  their  niece,  my 
charming  pupil,  whose  mind  in  some  measure  had 
been  formed  under  my  own  instructions,  joined  in 
their  entreaties,  I  complied.  That  night  I  was 
shown  to  a  magnificent  chamber,  and  the  next 
morning  early  Miss  Wilmot  desired  to  walk  with 
me  in  the  garden,  which  was  decorated  in  the 
modern  manner.  After  some  time  spent  in  point- 
ing out  the  beauties  of  the  place,  she  inquired  with 
seeming  unconcern,  when  last  I  had  heard  from  my 
son  George  ?  "  Alas,  madam,"  cried  I,  "  he  has 
now  been  nearly  three  years  absent,  without  ever 
writing  to  his  friends  or  me.  "Where  he  is  I  know 
not;  perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him  or  happiness 
more.  No,  my  dear  madam,  we  shall  never  more 
see  such  pleasing  hours  as  were  once  spent  by  our 
fireside  at  Wakefield.  My  little  family  are  now 
dispersing  very  fast,  and  poverty  has  brought  not 
only  want  but  infamy  upon  us."  The  good-natured 
girl  let  fall  a  tear  at  this  account ;  but  as  I  saw 
her  possessed  of  too  much  sensibility,  I  forbore  a 
more  minute  detail  of  our  sufferings.  It  was,  how- 
ever, some  consolation  to  me  to  find  that  time  had 
made  no  alteration  in  her  affections,  and  that  she 
had  rejected  several  offers  that  had  been  made  her 
since  our  leaving  her  part  of  the  country.  She  led 
me  round  all  the  extensive  improvements  of  the 
place,  pointing  to  the  several  walks  and  arbours, 


142 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD 


and  at  the  same  time  catching  from  every  object  a 
hint  for  some  new  questions  relative  to  my  son. 
In  this  manner  we  spent  the  forenoon,  till  the  bell 
summoned  us  in  to  dinner,  where  we  found  the  ma- 
nager of  the  strolling  company  that  I  mentioned 
before,  who  was  come  to  dispose  of  tickets  for  the 
Fair  Penitent,  which  was  to  be  acted  that  even- 
ing, the  part  of  Horatio,  by  a  young  gentleman 
who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage.  He  seemed 
to  be  very  warm  in  the  praises  of  the  new  per- 
former, and  averred  that  he  never  saw  any  who 
bid  so  fair  for  excellence.  Acting,  he  observed, 
was  not  learned  in  a  day ;  "  but  this  gentleman," 
continued  he,  "  seems  born  to  tread  the  stage.  His 
voice,  his  figure,  and  attitudes,  are  all  admirable. 
We  caught  him  up  accidentally  in  our  journey 
down."  This  account,  in  some  measure,  excited 
our  curiosity,  and,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  ladies,  I 
wras  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  them  to  the  play- 
house, which  was  no  other  than  a  barn.  As  the 
company  with  which  I  went  was  incontestably  the 
chief  of  the  place,  we  were  received  with  the 
greatest  respect,  and  placed  in  the  front  seat  of  the 
theatre ;  where  we  sat  for  some  time  with  no  small 
impatience  to  see  Horatio  make  his  appearance. 
The  new  performer  advanced  at  last ;  and  let  pa- 
rents think  of  my  sensations  by  their  own,  when  I 
found  it  wras  my  unfortunate  son.  He  was  going 
to  begin,  when  turning  his  eyes  upon  the  audience, 
he  perceived  Miss  Wilmot  and  me,  and  stood  at 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


143 


once  speechless  and  immovable.  The  actors  behind 
the  scene,  who  ascribed  this  cause  to  his  natural 
timidity,  attempted  to  encourage  him ;  but  instead 
of  going  on  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  re- 
tired off  the  stage.  I  don't  know  what  were  my 
faelings  on  this  occasion,  for  they  succeeded  with 
too.  much  rapidity  for  description ;  but  I  was  soon 
awaked  from  this  disagreeable  reverie  by  Miss  Wil- 
mot,  who,  pale,  and  with  a  trembling  voice,  desired 
me  to  conduct  her  back  to  her  uncle's.  When  got 
home,  Mr.  Arnold,  who  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to 
our  extraordinary  behaviour,  being  informed  that 
the  new  performer  was  my  son,  sent  his  coach  and 
an  invitation  for  him :  and  as  he  persisted  in  his 
refusal  to  appear  again  upon  the  stage,  the  players 
put  another  in  his  plac£,  and  we  soon  had  him  with 
us.  Mr.  Arnold  gave  him  the  kindest  reception, 
and  I  received  him  with  my  usual  transport ;  for  I 
could  never  counterfeit  false  resentment.  Miss 
Wilmot's  reception  was  mixed  with  seeming  ne- 
glect; and  yet  I  could  perceive  she  acted  a  studied 
part.  The  tumult  in  her  mind  seemed  not  yet 
abated :  she  said  twenty  giddy  things  that  looked 
like  joy,  and  then  laughed  loud  at  her  own  want  of 
meaning.  At  intervals  she  would  take  a  sly  peep 
at  the  glass,  as  if  happy  in  the  consciousness  of 
irresistible  beauty,  and  often  would  ask  questions 
without  giving  any  manner  of  attention  to  the  an- 
swers. 


144 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  History  of  a  Philosophic  Vagabond,  pursuing  Novelty,  Dut  losing 

Contentment. 

After  we  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  politely  offered 
to  send  a  couple  of  her  footmen  for  my  son's  bag- 
gage, which  he  at  first  seemed  to  decline ;  but  upon 
her  pressing  the  request,  he  was  obliged  to  inform 
her,  that  a  stick  and  a  wallet  were  all  the  move- 
able things  upon  this  earth  that  he  could  boast  of. 
"  Why,  ay,  my  son,"  cried  I,  "  you  left  me  but 
poor,  and  poor  I  find  you  are  come  back ;  and  yet 
I  make  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world." — "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  but  travel- 
ling after  fortune  is  not  the 'way  to  secure  her;  and, 
indeed,  of  late  I  have  desisted  from  the  pursuit." — 
"I  fancy,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "that  the  account 
of  your  adventures  would  be  amusing :  the  first 
part  of  them  I  have  often  heard  from  my  niece ; 
but  could  the  company  prevail  for  the  rest,  it 
would  be  an  additional  obligation." — "Madam," 
replied  my  son,  "  I  promise  you  the  pleasure  you 
have  in  hearing  wrill  not  be  half  so  great  as  my 
vanity  in  repeating  them;  and  yet  in  the  whole 
narrative  I  can  scarcely  promise  you  one  adventure, 
as  my  account  is  rather  of  wThat  I  saw  than  what 
I  did.  The  first  misfortune  of  my  life,  which  you 
all  know,  wras  great;  but  though  it  distressed,  it 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


145 


could  ni>t  sink  me.  No  person  ever  had  a  better 
knack  of  hoping  than  I.  The  less  kind  I  found 
Fortune  at  one  time,  the  more  I  expected  from  her 
another,  and  being  now  at  the  bottom  of  her  wheel, 
every  new  revolution  might  lift,  but  could  not  de- 
press me.  I  proceeded,  therefore,  toward  London, 
in  a  fine  morning,  no  way  uneasy  about  to-morrow, 
but  cheerful  as  the  birds  that  caroled  by  the  road, 
and  comforted  myself  with  reflecting,  that  London 
was  the  mart  where  abilities  of  every  kind  were 
sure  of  meeting  distinction  and  reward. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  town,  sir,  my  first  care  was 
to  deliver  your  letter  of  recommendation  to  our 
cousin,  who  was  himself  in  little  better  circum- 
stances than  I.  My  first  scheme,  you  know,  sir, 
was  to  be  usher  at  an  academy,  and  I  asked  his 
advice  on  the  affair.  Our  cousin  received  the  pro- 
posal with  a  true  Sardonic  grin.  Ay,  cried  he,  this 
is  indeed  a  very  pretty  career  that  has  been  chalked 
out  for  you.  I  have  been  an  usher  at  a  boarding- 
school  myself ;  and  may  I  die  by  an  anodyne  neck- 
lace, but  I  had  rather  be  an  under-turnkey  in 
Newgate.  I  was  up  early  and  late :  I  was  brow- 
beat by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face  by  the 
mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never 
permitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But 
are  you  sure  you  are  fit  for  a  school?  Let  me 
examine  .you  a  little.  Have  you  been  bred  appren- 
tice to  the  business?    No.    Then  you  won't  do 


146 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


for  a  school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys'  hair  ?  No. 
Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Have  you  had 
the  small-pox?  No.  Then  you  won't  do  for  a 
school.  Can  you  lie  three  in  a  bed  ?  No.  Then 
you  will  never  do  for  a  school.  Have  you  got  a 
good  stomach  ?  Yes.  Then  you  will  by  no  means 
do  for  a  school.  No,  sir,  if  you  are  for  a  genteel 
easy  profession,  bind  yourself  seven  years  as  an 
apprentice  to  turn  a  cutler's  wheel ;  but  avoid  a 
school  by  any  means.  Yet  come,  continued  he,  I 
see  you  are  a  lad  of  spirit  and  some  learning,  what 
do  you  think  of  commencing  author,  like  me  ? 
You  have  read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius 
starving  at  the  trade.  At  present  I'll  show  you 
forty  very  dull  fellows  about  town  that  live  by  it 
in  opulence ;  all  honest  jog-trot  men,  who  go  on 
smoothly  and  dully,  and  write  history  and  politics, 
and  are  praised:  men,  sir,  who,  had  they  been  bred 
cobblers,  would  all  their  lives  have  only  mended 
shoes,  but  never  made  them. 

"  Finding  that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gen- 
tility affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I  resolved 
to  accept  his  proposal;  and  having  the  highest 
respect  for  literature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of 
Grub-street  with  reverence.  I  thought  it  my  glory 
to  pursue  a  track  which  Dryden  and  Otway  trod 
before  me.  I  considered  the  goddess  of  this  region 
as  the  parent  of  excellence  ;  and  however  an  in- 
tercourse with  the  world  might  give  us  good  sense, 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


147 


the  poverty  she  entailed  I  supposed  to  be  the  nurse 
of  genius  !  Big  with  these  reflections,  I  sat  down, 
and  finding  that  the  best  things  remained  to  be 
said  on  the  wrong  side,  I  resolved  to  write  a  book 
that  should  be  wholly  new.  I  therefore  dressed  up 
three  paradoxes  with  some  ingenuity.  They  were 
false  indeed,  but  they  were  new.  The  jewels  of 
truth  have  been  so  often  imported  by  others,  that 
nothing  was  left  for  me  to  import  but  some  splen- 
did things  that  at  a  distance  looked  every  bit  as 
wrell.  Witness,  you  powers,  what  fancied  import- 
ance sat  perched  upon  my  quill  while  I  was  writing ! 
The  whole  learned  world,  I  made  no  doubt,  would 
rise  to  oppose  my  systems;  but  then  I  wras  pre- 
pared to  oppose  the  whole  learned  world.  Like 
the  porcupine,  I  sat  self-collected,  with  a  quill 
pointed  against  every  opposer." 

"  Well  said,  my  boy,"  cried  I,  "and  what  subject 
did  you  treat  upon  ?  I  hope  you  did  not  pass  over 
the  importance  of  monogamy.  But  I  interrupt; 
go  on :  you  published  your  paradoxes ;  well,  and 
what  did  the  learned  world  say  to  your  paradoxes?" 

"  Sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  the  learned  world  said 
nothing  to  my  paradoxes;  nothing  at  all,  sir. 
Every  man  of  them  was  employed  in  praising  his 
friends  and  himself,  or  condemning  his  enemies : 
and  unfortunately,  as  I  had  neither,  I  suffered  the 
crudest  mortification,  neglect. 

"  As  I  was  meditating  one  day  in  a  coffee-house 
10 


148 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


on  the  fate  of  my  paradoxes,  a  little  man  happen 
ing  to  enter  the  room,  placed  himself  in  the  box 
before  me,  and  after  some  preliminary  discourse, 
finding  me  to  be  a  scholar,  drew  out  a  bundle  of 
proposals,  begging  me  to  subscribe  to  a  new  edition 
he  was  going  to  give  the  world  of  Propertius  with 
notes.  This  demand  necessarily  produced  a  reply 
that  I  had  no  money;  and  that  concession  led  him 
to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  my  expectations. 
Finding  that  my  expectations  were  just  as  good  as 
my  purse,  I  see,  cried  he,  you  are  unacquainted 
with  the  town ;  I'll  teach  you  a  part  of  it.  Look 
at  these  proposals, — upon  these  very  proposals  I 
have  subsisted  very  comfortably  for  twelve  years. 
The  moment  a  nobleman  returns  from  his  travels, 
a  Creolean  arrives  from  Jamaica,  or  a  dowager  from 
her  country  seat,  I  strike  for  a  subscription.  I  first 
besiege  their  hearts  with  flattery,  and  then  pour  in 
my  proposals  at  the  breach.  If  they  subscribe 
readily  the  first  time,  I  renew  my  request  to  beg  a 
dedication  fee.  If  they  let  me  have  that,  I  smite 
them  once  more  for  engraving  their  coat  of  arms  at 
the  top.  Thus,  continued  he,  I  live  by  vanity,  and 
laugh  at  it.  But  between  ourselves,  I  am  now  too 
well  known  :  I  should  be  glad  to  borrow  your  face 
a  bit :  a  nobleman  of  distinction  has  just  returned 
from  Italy ;  my  face  is  familiar  to  his  porter ;  but 
if  you  bring  this  copy  of  verses,  my  life  for  it  you 
succeed,  and  we  divide  the  spoil." 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


149 


"  Bless  us,  George/'  cried  I,  "  and  is  this  the  em- 
ployment of  poets  now  !  Do  men  of  their  exalted 
talents  thus  stoop  to  beggary  !  Can  they  so  far 
disgrace  their  calling  as  to  make  a  vile  traffic  of 
praise  for  bread  ?" 

"  0  no,  sir/'  returned  he,  "  a  true  poet  can  never 
be  so  base ;  for  wherever  there  is  genius,  there  is 
pride.  The  creatures  I  now  describe  are  only  beg- 
gars in  rhyme.  The  real  poet,  as  he  braves  every 
hardship  for  fame,  so  he  is  equally  a  coward  to 
contempt ;  and  none  but  those  who  are  unworthy 
protection,  condescend  to  solicit  it. 

"■Having  a  mind  too  proud  to  stoop  to  such  in- 
dignities, and  yet  a  fortune  too  humble  to  hazard 
a  second  attempt  for  fame,  I  was  now  obliged  to 
take  a  middle  course,  and  write  for  bread.  But  I 
was  unqualified  for  a  profession  where  mere  indus- 
try alone  was  to  insure  success.  I  could  not  sup- 
press my  lurking  passion  for  applause ;  but  usually 
consumed  that  time  in  efforts  after  excellence  which 
takes  up  but  little  room,  when  it  should  have  been 
more  advantageously  employed  in  the  diffusive 
productions  of  fruitful  mediocrity.  My  little  piece 
would  therefore  come  forth  in  the  midst  of  periodi- 
cal publications,  unnoticed  and  unknown.  The 
public  were  more  importantly  employed  than  to 
observe  the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style,  or  the 
harmony  of  my  periods.  Sheet  after  sheet  was 
thrown  off  to  oblivion.    My  essays  were  buried 


150 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


among  the  essays  upon  liberty,  eastern  tales,  and 
cures  for  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog ;  while  Philautos, 
Philalethes,  Philelutheros  and  Philanthropos  all 
wrote  better,  because  they  wrote  faster  than  I. 

"  N3W,  therefore,  I  began  to  associate  with  none 
but  disappointed  authors,  like  myself,  who  praised, 
deplored,  and  despised  each  other.  The  satisfac- 
tion we  found  in  every  celebrated  writer's  attempts, 
was  inversely  as  their  merits.  I  found  that  no 
genius  in  another  could  please  me.  My  unfortu- 
nate paradoxes  had  entirely  dried  up  that  source 
of  comfort.  I  could  neither  read  nor  write  with 
satisfaction ;  for  excellence  in  another  was  my 
aversion,  and  writing  was  my  trade. 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections,  as  I 
was  one  day  sitting  on  a  bench  in  St.  J ames's  park, 
a  young  gentleman  of  distinction,  who  had  been 
my  intimate  acquaintance  at  the  university,  ap- 
proached me.  We  saluted  each  other  with  some 
hesitation :  he  almost  ashamed  of  being  known  to 
one  who  made  so  shabby  an  appearance,  and  I 
afraid  of  a  repulse.  But  my  suspicions  soon  va- 
nished; for  Ned  Thornhill  was  at  the  bottom  a 
very  good-natured  fellow." 

"  What  did  you  say,  George  ?"  interrupted  I. — 
'  Thornhill,  was  not  that  his  name  ?  It  can  cer- 
tainly be  no  other  than  my  landlord." — "  Bless 
me,"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "  is  Mr.  Thornhill  so  near 
a  neighbour  of  yours  ?    He  has  long  been  a  friend 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


151 


in  our  family,  and  we  expect  a  visit  from  him 
shortly." 

"  My  friend's  first  care/'  continued  my  son,  "  was 
to  alter  my  appearance  by  a  very  fine  suit  of  his 
own  clothes,  and  then  I  was  admitted  to  his  table, 
upon  the  footing  of  half-friend,  half-underling.  My 
business  was  to  attend  him  at  auctions,  to  put  him 
in  spirits  when  he  sat  for  his  picture,  to  take  the 
left  hand  in  his  chariot  when  not  filled  by  another, 
and  to  assist  at  tattering  a  kip,  as  the  phrase  was, 
when  we  had  a  mind  for  a  frolic.  Besides  this,  I 
had  twenty  other  little  employments  in  the  family. 
I  was  to  do  many  small  things  without  bidding :  to 
carry  the  corkscrew  ;  to  stand  godfather  to  all  the 
butlers  children;  to  sing  when  I  was  bid;  to  be 
never  out  of  humor ;  always  to  be  humble  ;  and,  if 
I  could,  to  be  very  happy. 

u  In  this  honorable  post,  however,  I  was  not  with- 
out a  rival.  A  captain  of  marines,  who  was  formed 
for  the  place  by  nature,  opposed  me  in  my  patron's 
affections.  His  mother  had  been  laundress  to  a 
man  of  quality,  and  thus  he  early  acquired  a  taste 
for  pimping  and  pedigree.  As  this  gentleman 
made  it  the  study  of  his  life  to  be  acquainted  with 
lords,  though  he  was  dismissed  from  several  for  his 
stupidity,  yet  he  found  many  of  them  who  were  as 
dull  as  himself,  that  permitted  his  assiduities.  As 
flattery  was  his  trade,  he  practised  ft  with  the 
easiest  address  imaginable ;  but  it  came  awkward 


152 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  stiff  from  me :  and  as  every  day  my  patron's 
desire  for  flattery  increased,  so  every  hour  being 
better  acquainted  with  his  defects,  I  became  more 
unwilling  to  give  it.  Thus  I  was  once  more  fairly 
going  to  give  up  the  field  to  the  captain,  when  my 
friend  found  occasion  for  my  assistance.  This  was 
nothing  less  than  to  fight  a  duel  for  him,  with  a 
gentleman  whose  sister  it  was  pretended  he  had 
used  ill.  I  readily  complied  with  his  request,  and 
though  I  see  you  are  displeased  with  my  conduct, 
yet  it  was  a  debt  indispensably  due  to  friendship 
I  could  not  refuse.  I  undertook  the  affair,  disarmed 
my  antagonist,  and  soon  after  had  the  pleasure  of 
finding  that  the  lady  was  only  a  woman  of  the 
town,  and  the  fellow  her  bully  and  a  sharper. 
This  piece  of  service  was  repaid  with  the  warmest 
professions  of  gratitude ;  but  as  my  friend  was  to 
leave  town  in  a  few  days,  he  knew  no  other  me- 
thod of  serving  me,  but  by  recommending  me  to 
his  uncle  Sir  William  Thornhill,  and  another  no- 
bleman of  great  distinction  who  enjoyed  a  post 
under  the  government.  When  he  was  gone,  my 
first  care  was  to  carry  his  recommendatory  letter 
to  his  uncle,  a  man  whose  character  for  every 
virtue  was  universal,  yet  just.  I  was  received  by 
his  servants  with  the  most  hospitable  smiles ;  for 
the  looks  of  the  domestic  ever  transmit  their  mas- 
ter's benevolence.  Being  shown  into  a  grand 
apartment,  where  Sir  William  soon  came  to  me,  I 


VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD.  153 

delivered  my  message  and  letter,  which  he  read, 
and  after  pausing  some  minutes,  c  Pray,  sir/  cried 
he,  6  inform  me  what  you  have  done  for  my  kins- 
man to  deserve  this  warm  recommendation :  but  I 
suppose,  sir,  I  guess  your  merits :  you  have  fought 
for  him ;  and  so  you  would  expect  a  reward  from 
me  for  being  the  instrument  of  his  vices.  I  wish, 
sincerely  wish,  that  my  present  refusal  may  be  some 
punishment  for  your  guilt,  but  still  more  that  it  may 
be  some  inducement  to  your  repentance.' — The  seve- 
rity of  this  rebuke  I  bore  patiently,  because  I  knew 
it  was  just.  My  whole  expectations  now,  there- 
fore, lay  in  my  letter  to  the  great  man.  As  the 
doors  of  the  nobility  are  almost  ever  beset  with 
beggars,  all  ready  to  thrust  in  some  sly  petition,  I 
found  it  no  easy  matter  to  gain  admittance.  How- 
ever, after  bribing  the  servants  with  half  my 
worldly  fortune,  I  was  at  last  shown  into  a  spa- 
cious apartment,  my  letter  being  previously  sent 
up  for  his  lordship's  inspection.  During  this 
anxious  interval  I  had  full  time  to  look  around  me. 
Every  thing  was  grand  and  of  happy  contrivance ; 
the  paintings,  the  furniture,  the  gildings  petrified 
me  with  awe,  and  raised  my  idea  of  the  owner. 
Ah,  thought  I  to  myself,  how  very  great  must  the 
possessor  of  these  things  be,  who  carries  in  his 
head  the  business  of  the  state,  and  whose  house 
displa}^s  half  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom :  sure  his 
genius  must  be  unfathomable  ! — During  these  awful 


154 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


reflections,  I  heard  a  step  coming  heavily  forward. 
Ah,  this  is  the  great  man  himself!  No,  it  was 
only  a  chamber-maid.  Another  foot  was  heard 
soon  after.  This  must  be  he !  No,  it  was  only 
the  great  man's  valet  de  chambre.  At  last  his  lord- 
ship actually  made  his  appearance.  Are  you, 
cried  he,  the  bearer  of  this  here  letter?  I  an- 
swered with  a  bow.  I  learn  by  this,  continued  he, 
as  how  that —  But  just  at  that  instant  a  servant 
delivered  him  a  card,  and  without  taking  further 
notice,  he  went  out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  to 
digest  my  own  happiness  at  leisure  :  I  saw  no  more 
of  him,  till  told  by  a  footman  that  his  lordship 
was  going  to  his  coach  at  the  door.  Down  I  imme- 
diately followed  and  joined  my  voice  to  that  of 
three  or  four  more,  who  came,  like  me,  to  petition 
for  favours.  His  lordship,  however,  went  too  fast 
for  us,  and  was  gaining  his  chariot  door  with  large 
strides,  when  I  halloed  out  to  know  if  I  was  to 
have  any  reply.  He  was  by  this  time  got  in,  and 
muttered  an  answer,  half  of  which  only  I  heard, 
the  other  half  was  lost  in  the  rattling  of  his  cha- 
riot wheels.  I  stood  for  some  time  with  my  neck 
stretched  out,  in  the  posture  of  one  that  was  listen- 
ing to  catch  the  glorious  sounds,  till  looking  round 
me,  I  found  myself  alone  at  his  lordship's  gate. 

"  My  patience,"  continued  my  son,  "  was  now 
quite  exhausted  :  stung  with  the  thousand  indigni 
ties  I  had  met  with,  I  was  willing  to  cast  myself 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


155 


away,  and  only  wanted  the  gulf  to  receive  me.  I 
regarded  myself  as  one  of  those  vile  things  that 
nature  designed  should  be  thrown  by  into  her  lum- 
ber-room there  to  perish  in  obscurity.  I  had  still, 
however,  half  a  guinea  left,  and  of  that  T  thought 
fortune  herself  should  not  deprive  me ;  but  in 
order  to  be  sure  of  this,  I  was  resolved  to  go  in- 
stantly and  spend  it  while  I  had  it,  and  then  trust 
to  occurrences  for  the  rest.  As  I  was  going  along 
with  this  resolution  it  happened  that  Mr.  Crispe's 
office  seemed  invitingly  open  to  give  me  a  welcome 
reception.  In  this  office,  Mr.  Crispe  kindly  offers 
all  his  majesty's  subjects  a  generous  promise  of  30?. 
a  year,  for  which  promise  all  they  give  in  return 
is  their  liberty  for  life,  and  permission  to  let  him 
transport  them  to  America  as  slaves.  I  was  happy 
at  finding  a  place  where  I  could  lose  my  fears  in 
desperation,  and  entered  this  cell  (for  it  had  the 
appearance  of  one)  with  the  devotion  of  a  monastic. 
Here  I  found  a  number  of  poor  creatures,  all  in 
circumstances  like  myself,  expecting  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Crispe,  presenting  a  true  epitome  of  English 
impatience.  Each  untractable  soul  at  variance 
with  Fortune,  wreaked  her  injuries  on  their  own 
hearts :  but  Mr.  Crispe  at  last  came  down,  and  all 
our  murmurs  were  hushed.  He  deigned  to  regard 
me  with  an  air  of  peculiar  approbation,  and  indeed 
he  was  the  first  man  who  for  a  month  past  had 
talked  to  me  with  smiles.    After  a  few  questions, 


156 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


he  paused  awhile  upon  the  properest  means  of  pro- 
viding for  me,  and  slapping  his  forehead  as  if  he 
had  found  it,  assured  me,  that  there  was  at  that 
time  an  embassy  talked  of  from  the  Synod  of  Penn- 
sylvania to  the  Chickasaw  Indians,  and  that  he 
would  use  his  interest  to  get  me  made  secretary. 
I  knew  in  my  own  heart  that  the  fellow  lied,  and 
yet  his  promise  gave  me  pleasure,  there  was  some- 
thing so  magnificent  in  the  sound.  I  fairly  there- 
fore divided  my  half-guinea,  one-half  of  which  went 
to  be  added  to  his  thirty  pounds,  and  with  the 
other  half  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  next  tavern,  to 
be  there  more  happy  than  he. 

"  As  I  was  going  out  with  that  resolution,  I  was 
met  at  the  door  by  the  captain  of  a  ship,  with 
whom  I  had  formerly  some  little  acquaintance,  and 
he  agreed  to  be  my  companion  over  a  bowl  of  punch. 
As  I  never  chose  to  make  a  secret  of  my  circum- 
stances, he  assured  me  that  I  was  upon  the  very 
point  of  ruin,  in  listening  to  the  office-keeper's  pro- 
mises :  for  that  he  only  designed  to  sell  me  to  the 
plantations.  But,  continued  he,  I  fancy  you  might, 
by  a  much  shorter  voyage,  be  very  easily  put  into 
a  genteel  way  of  bread.  Take  my  advice.  My 
ship  sails  to-morrow  for  Amsterdam.  What  if 
you  go  in  her  as  passenger  ?  The  moment  you 
land,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  teach  the  Dutchmen 
English,  and  I'll  warrant  you'll  get  pupils  and 
money  enough     I  suppose  you  understand  En 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


157 


glish,  added  he,  by  this  time,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it 
I  confidently  assured  him  of  that ;  but  expressed  a 
doubt  whether  the  Dutch  would  be  willing  to  learn 
English.  He  affirmed  with  an  oath  that  they  were 
fond  of  it  to  distraction ;  and  upon  that  affirmation 
I  agreed  with  his  proposal,  and  embarked  the  next 
day  to  teach  the  Dutch  English  in  Holland.  The 
wind  was  fair,  our  voyage  short,  and  after  having 
paid  my  passage  with  half  my  moveables,  I  found 
myself,  fallen  as  from  the  skies,  a  stranger  in  one 
of  the  principal  streets  of  Amsterdam.  In  this 
situation  I  was  unwilling  to  let  any  time  pass  un- 
employed in  teaching.  I  addressed  myself,  there- 
fore, to  two  or  three  I  met,  whose  appearance 
seemed  most  promising;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
make  ourselves  mutually  understood.  It  was  not 
till  this  very  moment  I  recollected,  that  in  order 
to  teach  the  Dutchmen  English,  it  was  necessary 
that  they  should  first  teach  me  Dutch.  How  I 
came  to  overlook  so  obvious  an  objection  is  to  me 
amazing ;  but  certain  it  is  I  overlooked  it. 

"  This  scheme,  thus  blown  up,  I  had  some 
thoughts  of  fairly  shipping  back  to  England  again ; 
but  falling  into  company  with  an  Irish  student 
who  was  returning  from  Louvain,  our  subject  turn- 
ing upon  topics  of  literature  (for  by  the  way  it 
may  be  observed,  that  I  always  forgot  the  mean- 
ness of  my  circumstances  when  I  could  converse 
upon  such  subjects,)  from  him  I  learned  that  there 


158 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


were  not  two  men  in  his  whole  university  who  un« 
derstood  Greek.  This  amazed  me.  I  instantly 
resolved  to  travel  to  Louvain,  and  there  live  by 
teaching  Greek ;  and  in  this  design  I  was  heart- 
ened by  my  brother  student,  who  threw  out  some 
hints  that  a  fortune  might  be  got  by  it. 

"  I  set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every 
day  lessened  the  burden  of  my  moveables,  like 
iEsop  and  his  basket  of  bread ;  for  I  paid  them 
for  my  lodgings  to  the  Dutch  as  I  travelled  on. 
When  I  came  to  Louvain,  I  was  resolved  not  to  go 
sneaking  to  the  lower  professors,  but  openly  ten- 
dered my  talents  to  the  principal  himself.  I  went, 
had  admittance,  and  offered  him  my  service  as  a 
master  of  the  Greek  language,  which  I  had  been 
told  was  a  desideratum  in  his  university.  The 
principal  seemed  at  first  to  doubt  my  abilities;  but 
of  these  I  offered  to  convince  him  by  turning  a 
part  of  any  Greek  author  he  should  fix  upon  into 
Latin.  Finding  me  perfectly  earnest  in  my  pro- 
posal, he  addressed  me  thus :  You  see  me,  young 
man ;  I  never  learned  Greek,  and  I  don't  find  that 
I  have  ever  missed  it.  I  have  had  a  doctors  cap 
and  gown  without  Greek ;  I  have  ten  thousand 
florins  a-year  without  Greek ;  I  eat  heartily  without 
Greek ;  and  in  short,  continued  he,  as  I  don't  know 
Greek,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  good  in  it. 

"  I  was  now  too  far  from  home  to  think  of  re- 
turning ;  so  I  resolved  to  go  forward.    I  had  some 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


159 


knowledge  of  music,  with  a  tolerable  voice,  and 
now  turned  what  was  my  amusement  into  a  pre- 
sent means  of  subsistence.  I  passed  among  the 
harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such 
of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry,  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  propor- 
tion to  their  wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a 
peasant's  house  towards  nightfall,  I  played  one  of 
my  most  merry  tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only 
a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next  day.  I  once 
or  twice  attempted  to  play  for  people  of  fashion; 
but  they  always  thought  my  performance  odious, 
and  never  rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This 
was  to  me  the  more  extraordinary,  as  whenever  I 
used  in  better  days  to  play  for  company,  when 
playing  wjas  my  amusement,  my  music  never  failed 
to  throw  them  into  raptures,  and  the  ladies  espe- 
cially ;  but  as  it  was  now  my  only  means,  it  was 
received  with  contempt — a  proof  how  ready  the 
world  is  to  underrate  those  talents  by  which  a  man 
is  supported. 

"  In  this  manner  I  proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no 
design  but  just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  to  go 
forward.  The  people  of  Paris  are  much  fonder  of 
strangers  that  have  money  than  of  those  that  have 
wit.  As  I  could  not  boast  much  of  either,  I  was 
no  great  favourite.  After  walking  about  the  town 
four  or  five  days  and  seeing  the  outsides  of  the  best 
houses,  I  was  preparing  to  leave  this  retreat  of 


ICO 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


venal  hospitality,  when  passing  through  one  of  the 
principal  streets,  whom  should  I  meet  but  our 
cousin,  to  whom  you  first  recommended  me.  This 
meeting  was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I  believe 
not  displeasing  to  him.  He  inquired  into  the  na- 
ture of  my  journey  to  Paris,  and  informed  me  of 
his  own  business  there,  which  was  to  collect  pic- 
tures, medals,  intaglios,  and  antiques  of  all  kinds 
for  a  gentleman  in  London,  who  had  just  stepped 
into  taste  and  a  large  fortune.  I  was  the  more 
surprised  at  seeing  our  cousin  pitched  upon  for  this 
office,  as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  asking  how  he  had 
been  taught  the  art  of  a  cognoscente  so  very  sud- 
denly, he  assured  me  that  nothing  was  more  easy. 
The  whole  secret  consisted  in  a  strict  adherence  to 
two  rules ;  the  one,  always  to  observe  the  picture 
might  have  been  better  if  the  painter  had  taken 
more  pains ;  and  the  other,  to  praise  the  works  of 
Pietro  Perugino.  But,  says  he,  as  I  once  taught 
you  how  to  be  an  author  in  London,  111  now  un- 
dertake to  instruct  you  in  the  art  of  picture-buying 
at  Paris. 

u  With  this  proposal  1  very  readily  closed,  as  it 
was  living,  and  now  all  my  ambition  was  to  live. 
I  went  therefore  to  his  lodgings,  improved  my  dress 
by  his  assistance,  and  after  some  time  accompanied 
him  to  auctions  of  pictures,  where  the  English 
gentry  were  expected  to  be  purchasers.    I  was  not 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


1G1 


a  little  surprised  at  his  intimacy  with  people  of  the 
best  fashion,  who  referred  themselves  to  his  judg- 
ment upon  every  picture  or  medal,  as  to  an  uner- 
ring standard  of  taste.  He  made  very  good  use  of 
my  assistance  upon  these  occasions;  for  when  asked 
his  opinion,  he  would  gravely  take  me  aside  and 
ask  mine,  shrug,  look  wise,  return,  and  assure  the 
company  that  he  could  give  no  opinion  upon  an 
affair  of  so  much  importance.  Yet  there  was  some- 
times an  occasion  for  a  more  supported  assurance, 
I  remember  to  have  seen  him,  after  giving  his 
opinion  that  the  colouring  of  a  picture  was  not 
mellow  enough,  very  deliberately  take  a  brush 
with  brown  varnish,  that  was  accidently  lying  by, 
and  rub  it  over  the  piece  with  great  composure 
before  all  the  company,  and  then  ask  if  he  had  not 
improved  the  tints. 

«  When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Paris, 
he  left  me  strongly  recommended  to  several  men 
of  distinction,  as  a  person  very  proper  for  a  travel- 
ling tutor ;  and  after  some  time  I  was  employed  in 
that  capacity  by  a  gentleman  who  brought  his 
ward  to  Paris,  in  order  to  set  him  forward  on  his 
tour  through  Europe.  I  was  to  be  the  young  gen- 
tleman's governor  but  with  a  proviso  that  he  should 
always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself.  My  pupil 
in  fact  understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money  con- 
cerns much  better  than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a  fortune 
of  about  two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  left  him 


162  '     VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


by  an  uncle  in  the  West  Indies  :  and  his  guardians, 
to  qualify  him  for  the  management  of  it,  had  bound 
him  apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice  was 
his  prevailing  passion ;  all  his  questions  on  the  road 
were,  how  money  might  be  saved ;  which  was  the 
least  expensive  course  to  travel ;  whether  anything 
could  be  bought  that  would  turn  to  account  when 
disposed  of  again  in  London  ?  Such  curiosities  on 
the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing,  he  was  ready 
enough  to  look  at ;  but  if  the  sight  of  them  was  to 
be  paid  for,  he  usually  asserted  that  he  had  been 
told  they  were  not  worth  seeing.  He  never  paid  a 
bill  that  he  would  not  observe  how  amazingly  ex- 
peusive  travelling  was,  and  all  this  though  he  was 
nob  yet  twenty-one.  When  arrived  at  Leghorn, 
as  we  took  a  walk  to  look  at  the  port  and  shipping, 
he  inquired  the  expense  of  the  passage  by  sea  home 
to  England.  This  he  was  informed  was  but  a 
trifle  compared  to  his  returning  by  land ;  he  was 
therefore  unable  to  withstand  the  temptation ;  so 
paying  me  the  small  part  of  my  salary  that  was 
due,  he  took  leave,  and  embarked  with  only  one 
attendant  for  London. 

"  I  now  therefore  was  left  once  more  upon  the 
world  at  large ;  but  then  it  was  a  thing  that  I  was 
used  to.  However,  my  skill  in  music  could  avail 
me  nothing  in  a  country  where  every  peasant 
was  a  better  musician  than  1 ;  but  by  this  time  I 
had  acquired  another  talent  which  answered  my 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


163 


purpose  as  well,  and  this  was  a  skill  in  disputation. 
In  all  the  foreign  universities  and  convents  there 
are,  upon  certain  days,  philosophical  theses  main- 
tained against  every  adventitious  disputant;  for 
which,  if  the  champion  opposes  with  any.  dexterity, 
he  can  claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a 
bed  for  one  night.  In  this  manner,  therefore,  I 
fought  my  way  towards  England,  walked  along 
from  city  to  city,  examined  mankind  more  nearly, 
and,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the 
picture.  My  remarks,  however,  are  but  few;  I 
found  that  monarchy  was  the  best  government  for 
the  poor  to  live  in,  and  commonwealths  for  the 
rich.  I  found  that  riches  in  general  were  in  every 
country  another  name  for  freedom;  and  that  no 
man  is  so  fond  of  liberty  himself,  as  not  to  be  de- 
sirous of  subjecting  the  will  of  some  individuals  in 
society  to  his  own. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  England  I  resolved  to  pay 
my  respects  first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as  a 
volunteer  in  the  first  expedition  that  was  going 
forward ;  but  on  my  journey  down  my  resolutions 
were  changed,  by  meeting  an  old  acquaintance, 
who  I  found  belonged  to  a  company  of  comedians 
that  were  going  to  make  a  summer  campaign  in 
the  country.  The  company  seemed  not  much  to 
disapprove  of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all  how- 
ever, apprised  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at 
which  I  aimed;  that  the  public  was  a  many-headed 

11 


164 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


monster,  and  that  only  such  as  had  very  gooo 
heads  could  please  it ;  that  acting  was  not  to  be 
learned  in  a  day,  and  that  without  some  traditional 
shrugs,  wThich  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  only  on 
the  stage,  these  hundred  years,  I  could  never  pre- 
tend to  please.  The  next  difficulty  was  in  fitting 
me  with  parts,  as  almost  every  character  was  in 
keeping. — I  was  driven  for  some  time  from  one 
character  to  another,  till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed 
upon,  which  the  presence  of  the  present  company 
has  happily  hindered  me  from  acting." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  short  continuance  of  Friendship  amongst  the  Vicious,  which  ia 
coeval  only  with  mutual  Satisfaction. 

My  son's  account  was  too  long  to  be  delivered 
at  once ;  the  first  part  of  it  was  begun  that  night, 
and  he  was  concluding  the  rest  after  dinner  the 
next  day,  when  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill's 
equipage  at  the  door  seemed  to  make  a  pause  in 
the  general  satisfaction.  The  butler,  who  was 
now  become  my  friend  in  the  family,  informed 
me  with  a  whisper,  that  the  'Squire  had  already 
made  some  overtures  to  Miss  Wilmot,  and  that  her 
aunt  and  uncle  seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match. 
Upon  Mr.  Thornhill's  entering,  he  seemed,  at  seeing 
my  son  and  me,  to  start  back ;  but  I  readily  im* 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


165 


puted  that  to  surprise,  and  not  displeasure.  How- 
ever, upon  our  advancing  to  salute  him,  he  returned 
our  greeting  with  the  most  apparent  candour ;  and 
after  a  short  time  his  presence  served  only  to  in* 
crease  the  general  good  humour. 

After  tea  he  called  me  aside  to  inquire  after  my 
daughter ;  but  upon  my  informing  him  that  my 
inquiry  was  unsuccessful,  he  seemed  greatly  sur- 
prised; adding,  that  he  had  been  since  frequently 
at  my  house  in  order  to  comfort  the  rest  of  my 
family,  whom  he  left  perfectly  well.  He  then 
asked  if  I  had  communicated  her  misfortune  to 
Miss  Wilmot  or  my  son ;  and  upon  my  replying 
that  I  had  not  told  them  as  yet,  he  greatly  approved 
my  prudence  and  precaution,  desiring  me  by  all 
means  to  keep  it  a  secret :  "  For  at  best,"  cried  he, 
"it  is  but  divulging  one's  own  infamy;  and  perhaps 
Miss  Livy  may  not  be  so  guilty  as  we  all  imagine." 
We  were  here  interrupted  by  a  servant,  who  came 
to  ask  the  'Squire  in,  to  stand  up  at  country  dances, 
so  that  he  left  me  quite  pleased  with  the  interest 
he  seemed  to  take  in  my  concerns.  His  addresses, 
however,  to  Miss  Wilmot,  were  too  obvious  to  be 
mistaken  :  and  yet  she  seemed  not  perfectly  pleased, 
but  bore  them  rather  in  compliance  to  the  will  of 
her  aunt  than  from  real  inclination.  I  had  even 
the  satisfaction  to  see  her  lavish  some  kind  looks 
upon  my  unfortunate  son,  which  the  other  could 
neither  extort  by  his  fortune  nor  assiduity.  Mr. 


166 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


Thornhill's  seeming  composure,  however,  not  a  lit 
tie  surprised  me  :  we  Lad  now  continued  here  a 
week  at  the  pressing  "instances  of  Mr.  Arnold  :  but 
each  day  the  more  tenderness  Miss  Wilmot  showed 
my  son,  Mr.  Thornhill's  friendship  seemed  propor- 
tionally to  increase  for  him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  as- 
surances of  using  his  interest  to  serve  the  family  : 
but  now  his  generosity  was  not  confined  to  promises 
alone.  The  morning  I  designed  for  my  departure, 
Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  me  with  looks  of  real  plea- 
sure, to  inform  me  of  a  piece  of  service  he  had  done 
for  his  friend  George.  This  was  nothing  less  than 
his  having  procured  him  an  ensign's  commission  in 
one  of  the  regiments  that  was  going  to  the  West 
Indies,  for  which  he  had  promised  but  one  hundred 
pounds,  his  interest  having  been  sufficient  to  get  an 
abatement  of  the  other  two.  "  As  for  this  trifling 
piece  of  service,"  continued  the  young  gentleman, 
"  I  desire  no  other  reward  but  the  pleasure  of 
having  served  my  friend ;  and  as  for  the  hundred 
pounds  to  be  paid,  if  you  are  unable  to  raise  it 
yourselves,  I  will  advance  it,  and  you  shall  repay 
me  at  your  leisure."  This  was  a  favour  we  wanted 
words  to  express  our  sense  of :  I  readily  therefore 
gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  testified  as  much 
gratitude  as  if  I  never  intended  to  pay. 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day  to 
secure  his  commission,  in  pursuance  of  his  generous 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


167 


patron's  directions,  who  judged  it  highly  expedient 
to  use  dispatch,  lest  in  the  meantime  another  should 
step  in  with  more  advantageous  proposals.  The 
next  morning  therefore  our  young  soldier  was  early 
prepared  for  his  departure,  and  seemed  the  only 
person  among  us  that  was  not  affected  by  it.  Nei- 
ther the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was  going  to  en- 
counter, nor  the  friends  and  mistress — for  Miss 
Wilmot  actually  loved  him — he  was  leaving  behind, 
any  way  damped  his  spirits.  After  he  had  taken 
leave  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  I  gave  him  all 
I  had,  my  blessing.  "  And  now,  my  boy,"  cried  I, 
"  thou  art  going  to  fight  for  thy  country,  remember 
how  thy  brave  grandfather  fought  for  his  sacred 
king,  when  loyalty  among  Britons  was  a  virtue. 
Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all  but  his  misfor- 
tunes, if  it  was  a  misfortune  to  die  with  Lord 
Falkland.  Go,  my  boy,  and  if  you  fall,  though 
distant,  exposed,  and  unwept  by  those  that  love 
you,  the  most  precious  tears  are  those  with  which 
Heaven  bedews  the  unburied  head  of  a  soldier." 

The  next  morning  I  took  leave  of  the  good  fami- 
ly, that  had  been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so 
long,  not  without  several  expressions  of  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Thornhill  for  his  late  bounty.  I  left  them 
in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  happiness  which  afflu- 
ence and  good  breeding  procure,  and  returned 
towards  home,  despairing  of  ever  finding  my  daugh- 
ter more,  but  sending  a  sigh  to  Heaven  to  spare 


168 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  to  forgive  her.  I  was  now  come  within  about 
twenty  miles  of  home,  having  hired  a  horse  to  car- 
ry me,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  and  comforted  my- 
self with  the  hopes  of  soon  seeing  all  I  held  dearest 
upon  earth.  But  the  night  coming  on  I  put  up  at  a 
little  public-house  by  the  road-side,  and  asked  for 
the  landlord's  company  over  a  pint  of  wine.  We  sat 
beside  his  kitchen  fire,  which  was  the  best  room  in 
the  house,  and  chatted  on  politics  and  the  news  of 
the  country.  We  happened,  among  other  topics, 
to  talk  of  young  'Squire  Thornhill,  who,  the  host 
assured  me,  was  hated  as  much  as  his  uncle  Sir 
William,  who  sometimes  came  down  to  the  country, 
was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe  that  he  made 
it  his  whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters  of  such 
as  received  him  to  their  houses,  and  after  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks'  possession,  turned  them  out 
unrewarded  and  abandoned  to  the  world.  As  we 
continued  our  discourse  in  this  manner,  his  wife, 
who  had  been  out  to  get  change,  returned,  and  per- 
ceiving that  her  husband  was  enjoying  a  pleasure 
in  which  she  was  not  a  sharer,  she  asked  him,  in  an 
angry  tone,  what  he  did  there  ?  to  which  he  only 
replied  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her  health. 
"  Mr.  Symmonds,"  cried  she,  "  you  use  me  very  ill, 
and  I'll  bear  it  no  longer.  Here  three  parts  of  the 
business  is  left  for  me  to  do,  and  the  fourth  left  un- 
finished ;  while  you  do  nothing  but  soak  with  the 
guests  all  day  long :  whereas  if  a  spoonful  of  liquor 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


169 


were  to  cure  me  of  a  fever,  I  never  toucli  a  drop." 
I  now  found  what  she  would  be  at,  and  immediately 
poured  her  out  a  glass,  which  she  received  with  a 
courtesy,  and  drinking  towards  my  good  health, 
"  Sir,"  resumed  she,  "  it  is  not  so  much  for  the 
value  of  the  liquor  I  am  angry,  but  one  cannot 
help  it  when  the  house  is  going  out  of  the  windows. 
If  the  customers  or  guests  are  to  be  dunned,  all  the 
burden  lies  upon  my  back ;  he'd  as  lief  eat  that 
glass  as  budge  after  them  himself.  There,  now, 
above  stairs,  we  have  a  young  woman  who  has  come 
to  take  up  her  lodgings  here,  and  I  don't  believe 
she  has  got  any  money  by  her  over  civility.  I  am 
certain  she  is  very  slow  of  payment,  and  I  wish 
she  were  put  in  mind  of  it." — "What  signifies 
minding  her,"  cried  the  host,  "  if  she  be  slow  she  is 
sure." — "  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  the  wife ;  "  but 
I  know  that  I  am  sure  she  has  been  here  a  fortnight, 
and  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  cross  of  her  money." — 
"I  suppose,  my  dear,"  cried  he,  "we  shall  have  it 
all  in  a  lump." — "  In  a  lump  !"  cried  the  other,  "  I 
hope  we  may  get  it  any  way ;  and  that  I  am  re- 
solved we  will  this  very  night,  or  out  she  tramps, 
bag  and  baggage." — "  Consider,  my  dear,"  cried  the 
husband,  "  she  is  a  gentlewoman,  and  deserves 
more  respect." — "  As  for  the  matter  of  that,"  re- 
turned the  hostess,  "  gentle  or  simple,  out  she  shall 
pack  with  a  sassarara.  Gentry  may  be  good  things 
where  they  take :  but  for  my  part,  I  never  saw 


170 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


much  good  of  them  at  the  sign  of  the  Harrow." — 
Thus  saying,  she  ran  up  a  narrow  flight  of  stairs 
that  went  from  the  kitchen  to  a  room  over-head ; 
and  I  soon  perceived,  by  the  loudness  of  her  voice, 
and  the  bitterness  of  her  reproaches,  that  no  money 
was  to  be  had  from  her  lodger.  I  could  hear  her 
remonstrances  very  distinctly  :  "  Out  I  say ;  pack 
out  this  moment !  tramp,  thou  infamous  strumpet, 
or  I'll  give  thee  a  m'ark  thou  won't  be  the  better  for 
these  three  months.  What !  you  trumpery,  to  come 
and  take  up  an  honest  house  without  cross  or  coin 
to  bless  yourself  with  ;  come  along,  I  say." — "  0, 
dear  madam,"  cried  the  stranger,  "  pity  me,  pity  a 
poor  abandoned  creature  for  one  night,  and  death 
will  soon  do  the  rest." — I  instantly  knew  the  voice 
of  my  poor  ruined  child  Olivia;  I  flew  to  her  rescue, 
while  the  woman  was  dragging  her  along  by  the 
hair,  and  I  caught  the  dear  forlorn  wretch  in  my 
arms. — "  Welcome,  any  way  welcome,  my  dearest 
lost  one,  my  treasure,  to  your  poor  old  father's  bo- 
som !  Though  the  vicious  forsake  thee,  there  is 
yet  one  in  the  world  that  will  never  forsake  thee ; 
though  thou  hadst  ten  thousand  crimes  to  answer 
for,  he  will  forget  them  all." — "  0  my  own  dear" 
—for  minutes  she  could  say  no  more — "  my  own 
dearest,  good  papa  !  could  angels  be  kinder  !  how 
do  I  deserve  so  much  ! — The  villain,  I  hate  him 
and  myself,  to  be  a  reproach  to  such  goodness. 
You  can't  forgive  me,  I  know  you  cannot." — "  Yes, 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


171 


my  child,  from  my  heart  I  do  forgive  thee  !  Only 
repent,  and  we  both  shall  yet  be  happy.  We  shall 
see  many  pleasant  days  yet,  my  Olivia  ?" — "  Ah  ! 
never,  sir,  never.  The  rest  of  my  wretched  life 
must  be  infamy  abroad,  and  shame  at  home.  But, 
alas !  papa,  you  look  much  paler  than  you  used  to 
do.  Could  such  a  thing  as  I  am  give  you  so  much 
uneasiness  ?  Surely  you  have  too  much  wisdom 
to  take  the  miseries  of  my  guilt  upon  yourself." — 
"  Our  wisdom,  young  woman,"  replied  I. — "  Ah, 
why  so  cold  a  name,  papa  V  cried  she.  "  This  is 
the  first  time  you  ever  called  me  by  so  cold  a  name." 
64 1  ask  pardon,  my  darling,"  returned  I;  ubut  I 
was  going  to  observe,  that  wisdom  makes  but  a 
slow  defence  against  trouble,  though  at  last  a  sure 
one."  The  landlady  now  returned  to  know  if  we 
did  not  choose  a  more  genteel  apartment ;  to  which 
assenting,  we  were  shown  into  a  room  where  we 
could  converse  more  freely.  After  we  had  talked 
ourselves  into  some  degree  of  tranquillity,  I  could 
not  avoid  desiring  some  account  of  the  gradations 
that  led  to  her  present  wretched  situation.  "  That 
villain,  sir,"  said  she,  "  from  the  first  day  of  our 
meeting  made  me  honourable  though  private 
proposals." 

"  Villain,  indeed  !"  cried  I :  "  and  yet  it  in  some 
measure  surprises  me,  how  a  person  of  Mr.  Bur- 
chell's  good  sense  and  seeming  honour  could  be 
guilty  of  such  deliberate  baseness,  and  thus  step 
into  a  family  to  undo  it." 


172 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  My  dear  papa/'  returned  my  daughter,  "  you 
labour  under  a  strange  mistake.  Mr.  Burchell 
never  attempted  to  deceive  me ;  instead  of  that, 
he  took  every  opportunity  of  privately  admonishing 
me  against  the  artifices  of  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  I  now 
find  was  even  worse  than  he  represented  him." 
"Mr.  Thornhill,"  interrupted  I,  "can  it  be  ?" — "Yes 
sir/'  returned  she ;  '*  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  se- 
duced me;  who  employed  the  two  ladies,  as  he 
called  them,  but  who  in  fact  were  abandoned  women 
of  the  town,  without  breeding  or  pity,  to  decoy  us 
up  to  London.  Their  artifices,  you  may  remember, 
would  have  certainly  succeeded,  but  for  Mr.  Bur- 
chell's  letter,  who  directed  those  reproaches  at  them, 
which  we  all  applied  to  ourselves.  How  he  came 
to  have  so  much  influence  as  to  defeat  their  inten- 
tions, still  remains  a  secret  to  me ;  but  I  am  con- 
vinced he  was  ever  our  warmest,  sincerest  friend." 

"  You  amaze  me,  my  dear,"  cried  I ;  "  but  now 
I  find  my  first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  base- 
ness were  too  well  grounded :  but  he  can  triumph 
in  security,  for  he  is  rich  and  we  are  poor:  But 
tell  me,  my  child,  sure  it  was  no  small  temptation 
that  could  thus  obliterate  all  the  impressions  of 
such  an  education,  and  so  virtuous  a  disposition  as 
thine." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  he  owes  all  his  tri- 
umph to  the  desire  I  had  of  making  him,  and  not 
myself,  happy.    I  knew  that  the  ceremony  of  our 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


173 


which  was  privately  perforraed  by  a 
popish  priest,  was  no  way  binding,  and  that  I  had 
nothing  to  trust  to  but  his  honour." — "  What !"  in- 
terrupted I,  "  and  were  you  indeed  married  by  a 
priest,  and  in  orders  ?" — "  Indeed,  sir,  we  were, 
replied  she,  "  though  we  were  both  sworn  to  conceal 
his  name."—"  Why,  then,  my  child,  come  to  my 
arms  again;  and  now  you  are  a  thousand  times 
more  welcome  than  before;  for  you  are  now  his 
wife  to  all  intents  and  purposes ;  nor  can  all  the 
laws  of  man,  though  written  upon  tables  of  ada- 
mant, lessen  the  force  of  that  sacred  connexion." 

"Alas,  papa,"  replied  she,  "you  are  but  little 
acquainted  with  his  villainies;  he  has  been  married 
already  by  the  same  priest  to  six  or  eight  wives 
more,  whom,  like  me,  he  has  deceived  and  aban- 
doned." 

"  Has  he  so  ?"  cried  I,  "  then  we  must  hang  the 
priest,  and  you  shall  inform  against  him  to-morrow." 
"  But,  sir,"  returned  she,  "  will  that  be  right,  when 
I  am  sworn  to  secrecy  ?" — "  My  dear,"  I  replied, 
"  if  you  have  made  such  a  promise  I  cannot,  nor 
will  I  tempt  you  to  break  it.  Even  though  it  may 
benefit  the  public,  you  must  not  inform  against  him 
In  all  human  institutions  a  smaller  evil  is  allowed 
to  procure  a  greater  good ;  as  in  politics,  a  province 
may  be  given  away  to  secure  a  kingdom;  in  medi- 
cine, a  limb  may  be  lopped  off  to  preserve  the  body; 
but  in  religion,  the  law  is  written,  and  inflexible, 


174 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


never  to  do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is  light; 
for  otherwise,  if  we  commit  a  smaller  evil  to  pro* 
cure  a  greater  good,  certain  guilt  would  be  thus 
incurred,  in  expectation  of  contingent  advantage. 
And  though  the  advantage  should  certainly  follow, 
yet  the  interval  between  commission  and  advantage, 
which  is  allowed  to  be  guilty,  may  be  that  in  which 
we  are  called  away  to  answer  for  the  things  we 
have  done,  and  the  volume  of  human  actions  is 
closed  for  ever.  But  I  interrupt  you,  my  dear ;  go 
on." 

"  The  very  next  morning/'  continued  she,  "  I 
found  what  little  expectation  I  was  to  have  from 
his  sincerity.  That  very  morning  he  introduced 
me  to  two  unhappy  women  more,  whom,  like  me, 
he  had  deceived,  but  who  lived  in  contented  pros- 
titution. I  loved  him  too  tenderly  to  bear  such 
rivals  in  his  affections,  and  strove  to  forget  my 
infamy  in  a  tumult  of  pleasures.  With  this  view 
I  danced,  dressed,  and  talked ;  but  still  was  un- 
happy. The  gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me 
every  moment  of  the  power  of  my  charms,  and 
this  only  contributed  to  increase  my  melancholy 
as  I  had  thrown  all  their  power  quite  away.  Thus 
each  day  I  grew  more  pensive,  and  he  more  inso- 
lent, till  at  last  the  monster  had  the  assurance  to 
offer  me  to  a  young  baronet  of  his  acquaintance. 
Need  v  describe,  sir,  how  his  ingratitude  stung  me? 
lAy  answer  to  this  proposal  was  almost  madness. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


175 


I  desired  to  part.  As  I  was  going  he  offered  me  a 
purse ;  but  I  flung  it  at  him  with  indignation,  and 
burst  from  him  in  a  rage,  that  for  awhile  kept  me 
insensible  of  the  miseries  of  my  situation.  But  I 
soon  looked  round  me,  and  saw  myself  a  vile,  ab- 
ject, guilty  thing,  without  one  friend  in  the  world 
to  apply  to.  Just  in  that  interval  a  stage-coach 
happening  to  pass  by,  I  took  a  place,  it  being  my 
aim  to  be  driven  at  a  distance  from  a  wretch  I  de- 
spised and  detested.  I  wras  set  down  here,  where, 
since  my  arrival,  my  own  anxiety  and  this  woman's 
unkindness  have  been  my  only  companions.  The 
hours  of  pleasure  that  I  have  passed  with  my 
mamma  and  sister  now  grow  painful  to  me.  Their 
sorrows  are  much;  but  mine  are  greater  than  theirs 
for  mine  are  mixed  with  guilt  and  infamy." 

"  Have  patience,  my  child,"  cried  I,  "  and  I  hope 
things  will  yet  be  better.  Take  some  repose  to- 
night, and  to-morrow  I'll  carry  you  home  to  your 
mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family,  from  whom  you 
will  receive  a  kind  reception. — Poor  woman,  this 
has  gone  to  her  heart :  but  she  loves  you  still,  Oli- 
via, and  will  forget  it." 


176 


VICAR  CF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  Love  at  bottom. 

The  next  morning  I  took  my  daughter  behind 
me,  and  set  out  on  my  return  home.  As  we 
travelled  along,  I  strove  by  every  persuasion  to 
calm  her  sorrows  and  fears,  and  to  arm  her  with 
resolution  to  bear  the  presence  of  her  offended 
mother.  I  took  every  opportunity  from  the  pros- 
pect of  a  fine  country,  through  which  we  passed, 
to  observe  how  much  kinder  heaven  was  to  us  than 
we  to  each  other,  and  that  the  misfortunes  of  na- 
ture's making  were  very  few.  I  assured  her,  that 
she  should  never  perceive  any  change  in  my  affec- 
tions, and  that  during  my  life,  which  yet  might  be 
long,  she  might  depend  upon  a  guardian  and  an 
instuctor.  I  armed  her  against  the  censures  of  the 
world,  showed  her  that  books  wrere  sweet  unre- 
proaching  companions  to  the  miserable,  and  that 
if  they  could  not  bring  us  to  enjoy  life,  they  would 
at  least  teach  us  to  endure  it. 

The  hired  horse  that  we  rode  was  to  be  put  up 
that  night  at  an  inn  by  the  way,  within  about  five 
miles  from  my  house;  and  as  I  was  willing  to  pre- 
pare my  family  for  my  daughter's  reception,  I  de- 
ermined  to  leave  her  that  night  at  the  inn,  and  to 
return  for  her,  accompanied  by  my  daughter  So- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEI.ELD. 


177 


phia,  early  the  next  morning.  It  was  night  before 
we  reached  our  appointed  stage  :  however,  after 
seeing  her  provided  with  a  decent  apartment,  and 
having  ordered  the  hostess  to  prepare  proper  re- 
freshments, I  kissed  her,  and  proceeded  towards 
home.  And  now  my  heart  caught  new  sensations 
of  pleasure  the  nearer  I  approached  that  peaceful 
mansion.  As  a  bird  that  has  been  frighted  from 
its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my  haste,  and 
hovered  round  my  little  fire-side  with  all  the  rap- 
ture of  expectation.  I  called  up  the  many  fond 
things  I  had  to  say,  and  anticipated  the  welcome  I 
was  to  receive.  I  already  felt  my  wife's  tender 
embrace,  and  smiled  at  the  joy  of  my  little  ones. 
As  I  walked  but  slowly,  the  night  waned  apace. 
The  labourers  of  the  day  were  all  retired  to  rest ; 
the  lights  were  out  in  every  cottage ;  no  sounds 
were  heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock,  and  the  deep- 
mouthed  watch-dog  at  hollow  distance.  I  ap- 
proached my  little  abode  of  pleasure,  and  before  I 
was  within  a  furlong  of  the  place,  our  honest  mas- 
tiff came  running  to  welcome  me. 

It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I  came  to  knock 
at  my  door ; — all  was  still  and  silent ; — my  heart 
dilated  with  unutterable  happiness,  when,  to  my 
amazement,  I  saw  the  house  bursting  out  into  a 
blaze  of  fire,  and  every  aperture  red  with  conflagra- 
tion !  I  gave  a  loud  convulsive  outcry,  and  fell 
upon  the  pavement  insensible.    This  alarmed  my 


178 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


son.  who  had  till  this  been  asleep,  and  he  perceiving 
the  flames,  instantly  waked  my  wife  and  daughter ; 
and  all  running  out,  naked,  and  wild  with  appre- 
hension, recalled  me  to  life  with  their  anguish. 
But  it  was  only  to  objects  of  new  terror ;  for  the 
flames  had  by  this  time  caught  the  roof  of  our 
dwelling,  part  after  part  continuing  to  fall  in,  while 
the  family  stood  with  silent  agony  looking  on  as  if 
they  enjoyed  the  blaze.  I  gazed  upon  them  and 
upon  it  by  turns,  and  then  looked  round  me  for  my 
two  little  ones ;  but  they  were  not  to  be  seen.  0 
misery  !  "  Where,"  cried  I,  "  where  are  my  little 
ones  ?"  a  They  are  burnt  to  death  in  the  flames," 
gays  my  wife,  calmly,  "  and  I  will  die  with  them." 
— That  moment  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  with- 
in, who  were  just  awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing 
could  have  stopped  me.  "  Where,  where  are  my 
children  ?"  cried  I,  rushing  through  the  flames,  and 
bursting  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  they 
were  confined  ;  "  where  are  my  little  ones  ?" — 
"  Here,  dear  papa,  here  we  are,"  cried  they  together, 
while  the  flames  were  just  catching  the  bed  where 
they  lay.  I  caught  them  both  in  my  arms,  and 
Bnatched  them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  possible, 
while,  just  as  I  was  got  out,  the  roof  . sunk  in. 
"Now,"  cried  I,  holding  up  my  children,  "now  let 
the  flames  burn  on,  and  all  my  possessions  perish. 
Here  they  are ;  I  have  saved  my  treasure.  Here, 
my  dearest,  here  are  our  treasures,  and  we  shall 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


179 


yet  be  happy."  We  kissed  our  little  darlings  a 
thousand  times ;  they  clasped  us  round  the  neck, 
and  seemed  to  share  our  transports,  while  their 
mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns. 

I  now  stood  a  calm  spectator  of  the  flames,  and 
after  some  time  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to 
the  shoulder  w^as  scorched  in  a  terrible  manner.  It 
was  therefore  out  of  my  power  to  give  my  son  any 
assistance,  either  in  attempting  to  save  our  goods, 
or  preventing  the  flames  spreading  to  our  corn.  By 
this  time  the  neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  came 
running  to  our  assistance ;  but  all  they  could  do 
was  to  stand,  like  us,  spectators  of  the  calamity. 
My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes  I  had  re- 
served for  my  daughters'  fortunes,  were  entirely 
consumed,  except  a  box  with  some  papers  that 
stood  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three  things  more 
of  little  consequence,  which  my  son  brought  away 
in  the  beginning.  The  neighbours  contributed, 
however,  what  they  could  to  lighten  our  distress. 
'They  brought  us  clothes,  and  furnished  one  of  our 
out-houses  with  kitchen  utensils  ;  so  that  by  day- 
light we  had  another,  though  a  wretched  dwelling 
to  retire  to.  My  honest  next  neighbour  and  his 
children  were  not  the  least  assiduous  in  providing 
us  with  every  thing  necessary,  and  offering  what- 
ever consolation  untutored  benevolence  could 
suggest 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  cu- 

12 


180 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


riosity  to  know  the  cause  of  my  long  stay  begun  to 
take  place :  having  therefore  informed  them  of 
every  particular,  I  proceeded  to  prepare  them  for 
the  reception  of  our  lost  one,  and  though  we  had 
nothing  but  wretchedness  now  to  impart,  I  was 
willing  to  procure  her  a  welcome  to  what  we  had. 
This  task  would  have  been  more  difficult  but  for 
our  recent  calamity,  which  had  humbled  my  wife's 
pride,  and  blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions. 
Being  unable  to  go  for  my  poor  child  myself,  as 
my  arm  grew  very  painful,  I  sent  my  son  and 
daughter,  who  soon  returned,  supporting  the 
wretched  delinquent,  who  had  not  the  courage  to 
look  up  at  her  mother,  whom  no  instruction  of  mine 
could  persuade  to  a  perfect  reconciliation ;  for  wo- 
men have  a  much  stronger  sense  of  female  error 
than  men.  "  Ah,  madam,"  cried  her  mother,  "  this 
is  but  a  poor  place  you  have  come  to  after  so  much 
finery.  My  daughter  Sophy  and  I  can  afford  but 
little  entertainment  to  persons  who  have  kept  com- 
pany only  with  people  of  distinction.  Yes,  Miss 
Livy,  your  poor  father  and  I  have  suffered  very 
much  of  late  :  but  I  hope  Heaven  will  forgive  you." 
During  this  reception,  the  unhappy  victim  stood 
pale  and  trembling,  unable  to  weep  or  reply  :  but 
I  could  not  continue  a  silent  spectator  of  her  dis- 
tress; wherefore,  assuming  a  degree  of  severity  in 
my  voice  and  manner,  which  was  ever  followed 
with  instant  submission,  "  I  entreat,  woman,  that 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


my  words  may  be  now  marked  once  for  all :  I  have 
here  brought  you  back  a  poor  deluded  wanderer ; 
her  return  to  duty  demands  the  revival  of  our  ten- 
derness. The  real  hardships  of  life  are  now  com- 
ing fast  upon  us ;  let  us  not,  therefore,  increase 
them  by  dissension  among  each  other  !  If  we  live 
harmoniously  together  we  may  yet  be  contented, 
as  there  are  enough  of  us  to  shut  out  the  censuring 
world,  and  keep  each  other  in  countenance.  The 
kindness  of  Heaven  is  promised  to  the  penitent, 
and  let  ours  be  directed  by  the  example.  Heaven, 
we  are  assured,  is  much  more  pleased  to  view  a 
repentant  sinner,  than  ninety-nine  persons  who 
have  supported  a  course  of  undeviating  rectitude. 
And  this  is  right ;  for  that  single  effort  by  which 
we  stop  short  in  the  down-hill  path  to  perdition,  is 
itself  a  greater  exertion  of  virtue  than  a  hundred 
acts  of  justice." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
None  but  the  guilty  can  be  long  and  completely  miserable. 

Some  assiduity  was  now  required  to  make  our 
present  abode  as  convenient  as  possible,  and  we 
were  soon  again  qualified  to  enjoy  our  former  se- 
renity. Being  disabled  myself  from  assisting  my 
^on  in  our  usual  occupations,  I  read  to  my  family 
from  the  few  books  that  were  saved,  and  particu- 


182 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


larly  from  such  as,  by  amusing  the  imagination, 
contributed  to  ease  the  heart.  Our  good  neigh- 
bours too,  came  every  day  with  the  kindest  condo- 
lence, and  fixed  a  time  in  which  they  were  all  to 
assist  in  repairing  my  former  dwelling.  Honest 
Farmer  Williams  was  not  the  last  among  these 
visitors;  but  heartily  offered  his  friendship.  He 
would  even  have  renewed  his  addresses  to  my 
daughter ;  but  she  rejected  him  in  such  a  manner 
as  totally  repressed  his  future  solicitations. — Her 
grief  seemed  formed  for  continuing,  and  she  was 
the  only  person  of  our  little  society  that  a  week 
did  not  restore  to  cheerfulness.  She  now  lost  that 
unblushing  innocence  which  once  taught  her  to 
respect  herself,  and  to  seek  pleasure  by  pleasing. — 
Anxiety  now  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind ; 
her  beauty  began  to  be  impaired  with  her  consti- 
tution, and  neglect  still  more  contributed  to  dimi- 
nish it.  Every  tender  epithet  bestowed  on  her 
sister  brought  a  pang  to  her  heart  and  a  tear  to 
her  eye  ;  and  as  one  vice,  though  cured,  ever  plants 
others  where  it  has  been,  so  her  former  guilt, 
though  driven  out  by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and 
envy  behind.  I  strove  a  thousand  ways  to  lessen 
her  care,  and  even  forgot  my  own  pain  in  a  con- 
cern for  hers,  collecting  such  amusing  passages  of 
history  as  a  strong  memory  and  some  reading  could 
suggest. — "  Our  happiness,  my  dear,"  I  would  say, 
"  is  in  the  power  of  one  who  can  bring  it  about  a 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


183 


thousand  unforseen  ways  that  mock  our  foresight. 
If  example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I'll  give  you 
a  story,  my  child,  told  us  by  a  grave,  though  some- 
times a  romancing,  historian. 

"  Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a  Neapo- 
litan nobleman  of  the  first  quality,  and  found  her- 
self a  widow  and  a  mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 
As  she  stood  one  day  caressing  her  infant  son  in 
the  open  window  of  an  apartment  which  hung 
over  the  river  Volturna,  the  child  with  a  sudden 
spring  leaped  from  her  arms  into  the  flood  below, 
and  disappeared  in  a  moment.  The  mother,  struck 
with  instant  surprise,  and  making  an  effort  to  save 
him,  plunged  in  after;  but  far  from  being  able  to 
assist  the  infant,  she  herself  with  great  difficulty 
escaped  to  the  opposite  shore,  just  when  some 
French  soldiers  were  plundering  the  country  on 
that  side,  who  immediately  made  her  their  prisoner. 

"  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the 
French  and  Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity, 
they  were  going  at  once  to  perpetrate  those  two 
extremes  suggested  by  appetite  and  cruelty.  This 
base  resolution,  however,  was  opposed  by  a  young 
officer,  who,  though  their  retreat  required  the  ut- 
most expedition,  placed  her  behind  him,  and 
b:  ^ught  her  in  safety  to  his  native  city.  Her  beau- 
ty at  first  caught  his  eye,  her  merit  soon  after  his 
heart.  They  were  married  ;  he  rose  to  the  highest 
posts ;  they  lived  long  together,  and  were  happy. 


181 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


But  the  felicity  of  a  soldier  can  never  be  called 
permanent :  after  an  interval  of  several  years,  the 
troops  which  he  commanded  having  met  with  a 
repulse,  he  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  the  city 
where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.  Here  they  suf- 
fered a  siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was  taken. 
Few  histories  can  produce  more  various  instances 
of  cruelty  than  those  which  the  French  and  Italians 
at  that  time  exercised  upon  each  other.  It  was 
resolved  by  the  victors,  upon  this  occasion,  to  put 
all  the  French  prisoners  to  death;  but  particularly 
the  husband  of  the  unfortunate  Matilda,  as  he  was 
principally  instrumental  in  protracting  the  siege. 
Their  determinations  were  in  general  executed  al- 
most as  soon  as  resolved  upon.  The  captive  soldier 
was  led  forth,  and  the  executioner  with  his  sword 
stood  ready,  while  the  spectators  in  gloomy  silence 
awaited  the  fatal  blow,  which  was  only  suspended 
till  the  general,  who  presided  as  judge,  should  give 
the  signal.  It  was  in  this  interval  of  anguish  and 
expectation  that  Matilda  came  to  take  a  last  fare- 
well of  her  husband  and  deliverer,  deploring  her 
wretched  situation,  and  the  cruelty  of  fate,  that 
had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a  premature  death 
in  the  river  Volturna,  to  be  the  spectator  of  still 
greater  calamities.  The  general,  who  was  a  young 
man,  was  struck  with  surprise  at  her  beauty,  and 
pity  at  her  distress ;  but  with  still  stronger  emo- 
tions when  he  heard  her  mention  her  former  dan- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


185 


gers.  He  was  her  son,  the  infant  for  w  horn  she 
had  encountered  so  much  danger.  He  acknow- 
ledged her  at  once  as  his  mother,  and  fell  at  her 
feet.  The  rest  may  be  easily  supposed ;  the  captive 
was  set  free,  and  all  the  happiness  that  love,  friend- 
ship, and  duty  could  confer  on  each,  were  united." 

In  this  manner  I  would  attempt  to  amuse  my 
daughter,  but  she  listened  with  divided  attention ; 
for  her  own  misfortunes  engrossed  all  the  pity  she 
once  had  for  those  of  another,  and  nothing  gave  her 
ease.  In  company  she  dreaded  contempt;  and  in  sol- 
itude she  only  found  anxiety.  Such  was  the  colour  of 
her  wretchedness,  when  we  received  certain  infor- 
mation that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  going  to  be  married 
to  Miss  Wilmot,  for  whom  I  always  suspected  he 
had  a  real  passion,  though  he  took  every  opportu- 
nity before  me  to  express  his  contempt  both  of  her 
person  and  fortune.  This  news  only  served  to 
increase  poor  Olivia's  affliction  :  such  a  flagrant 
breach  of  fidelity  was  more  than  her  courage  could 
support.  I  was  resolved,  however,  to  get  more  cer- 
tain information,  and  to  defeat  if  possible  the  com- 
pletion of  his  designs,  by  sending  my  son  to  old 
Mr.  Wilmot' s  with  instructions  to  know  the  truth 
of  the  report,  and  to  deliver  Miss  Wilmot  a  letter, 
intimating  Mr.  Thornhill's  conduct  in  my  family. 
My  son  went  in  pursuance  of  my  directions,  and 
in  three  days  returned,  assuring  us  of  the  truth  of 
the  account;  but  that  he  b^d  found  it  impossible 


186 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  deliver  the  letter,  which  he  was  therefore  obliged 
to  leave,  as  Mr.  Thornhill  and  Miss  Wilmot  were 
visiting  round  the  country.  They  were  to  be  mar- 
ried, he  said,  in  a  few  days,  having  appeared  to* 
gether  at  church  the  Sunday  before  he  was  there, 
in  great  splendour,  the  bride  attended  by  six  young 
ladies,  and  he  by  as  many  gentlemen.  Their  ap- 
proaching nuptials  filled  the  whole  country  with 
rejoicing,  and  they  usually  rode  out  together  in  the 
grandest  equipage  that  had  been  seen  in  the  coun- 
try for  many  years.  All  the  friends  of  both  fami- 
lies, he  said,  were  there,  particularly  the  'Squire's 
uncle,  Sir  William  Thornhill,  who  bore  so  good  a 
character.  He  added  that  nothing  but  mirth  and 
feasting  were  going  forward ;  that  all  the  country 
praised  the  young  bride's  beauty,  and  the  bride- 
groom's fine  person,  and  that  they  were  immensely 
fond  of  each  other ;  concluding  that  he  could  not 
help  thinking  Mr.  Thornhill  one  of  the  most  happy 
men  in  the  world. 

"  Why,  let  him,  if  he  can,"  returned  I :  "  but, 
my  son,  observe  this  bed  of  straw,  and  unsheltering 
roof ;  those  mouldering  walls,  and  humid  floor ;  my 
wretched  body  thus  disabled  by  fire,  and  my  chil- 
dren weeping  round  me  for  bread ; — you  have  come 
home,  my  child,  to  all  this  ;  yet  here,  even  here, 
you  see  a  man  that  would  not  for  a  thousand  worlds 
exchange  situations.  0,  my  children,  if  you  could 
but  learn  to  commune  with  your  own  hearts,  and 


VICAR  OF   WAKEFIELD.  187 

know  what  noble  company  you  can  make  them, 
you  would  little  regard  the  elegance  and  splendour 
of  the  worthless.  Almost  all  men  have  been  taught 
to  call  life  a  passage,  and  themselves  the  travellers. 
The  similitude  still  may  be  improved,  when  we 
observe  that  the  good  are  joyful  and  serene,_  ike 
travellers  that  are  going  towards  home ;  the  wicked 
but  by  intervals  happy,  like  travellers  that  are 

goins;  into  exile. 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpow- 
ered by  this  new  disaster,  interrupted  what  I  had 
further  to  observe.   I  bade  her  mother  support  her 
and  after  a  short  time  she  recovered.   She  appeared 
from  that  time  more  calm,  and  I  imagined  had 
.rained  a  new  degree  of  resolution  :  but  appearances 
deceived  me;  for  her  tranquillity  was  the  languoi 
of  over-wrought  resentment.    A  supply  of  provi- 
sions, charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind  parishioners 
seemed  to  diffuse  new  cheerfulness  among  the  rest 
of  the  family,  nor  was  I  displeased  at  seeing  them 
once  more  sprightly  and  at  ease.    It  would  have 
been  unjust  to  damp  their  satisfactions,  merely  to 
condole  with  resolute  melancholy,  or  to  burden 
them  with  a  sadness  they  did  not  feel.    Thus  once 
more  the  tale  went  round,  and  the  song  was  de. 
Branded,  and  cheerfulness  condescended  to  hover 
round  our  little  habitation. 


188 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Fresh  Calamities. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar 
warmth  for  the  season,  so  that  we  agreed  to  break- 
fast together  on  the  honey-suckle  bank;  where, 
while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daughter  at  my  request 
joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about 
us.  It  was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met 
her  seducer,  and  every  object  served  to  recall  her 
sadness.  But  that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by 
objects  of  pleasure,  or  inspired  by  sounds  of  har- 
mony, soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it. 
Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion  felt  a  pleasing 
distress,  and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as  before. 
"  Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,"  cried  she,  "  let  us  have 
that  little  melancholy  air  your  papa  was  so  fond  of, 
your  sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do,  child, 
it  will  please  your  old  father."  She  complied  in  a 
manner  so  exquisitely  pathetic  as  moved  me. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  it  pcntance  to  her  lover, 

And  wr  ng  his  bosom — is  to  die. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


189 


As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which 
an  interruption  in  her  voice  from  sorrow  gave  a 
peculiar  softness,  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill's 
equipage  at  a  distance  alarmed  us  all,  but  particu- 
larly increased  the  uneasiness  of  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, who,  desirous  of  shunning  her  betrayer,  return- 
ed to  the  house  with  her  sister.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  was  alighted  from  his  chariot,  and  making  up 
to  the  place  where  I  was  still  sitting,  inquired  after 
my  health  with  his  usual  air  of  familiarity.  "  Sir," 
replied  I,  "  your  present  assurance  only  serves  to 
aggravate  the  baseness  of  your  character;  and 
there  was  a  time  when  I  would  have  chastised  your 
insolence  for  presuming  thus  to  appear  before  me. 
But  now  you  are  safe ;  for  age  has  cooled  my  pas- 
sions, and  my  calling  restrains  them." 

"I  vow,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  he,  "I  am 
amazed  at  all  this ;  nor  can  I  understand  what  it 
means  !  I  hope  you  don't  think  your  daughter's 
late  excursion  with  me  had  any  thing  criminal 
in  it?" 

"  Go,"  cried  I,  "  thou  art  a  wretch,  a  poor  pitiful 
wretch,  and  every  way  a  liar  :  but  your  meanness 
secures  you  from  my  anger !  Yet,  sir,  I  am  descend- 
ed from  a  family  that  would  not  have  borne  this ! 
— And  so,  thou  vile  thing,  to  gratify  a  momentary 
passion,  thou  hast  made  one  poor  creature  wretched 
for  life,  and  polluted  a  family  that  had  nothing  but 
honour  for  their  portion!" 


190 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  If  she  or  you/'  returned  he,  "  are  reso/ved  to 
be  miserable,  I  cannot  help  it.  But  you  may  still 
be  happy ;  and  whatever  opinion  you  may  have 
formed  of  me,  you  shall  ever  find  me  ready  to 
contribute  to  it.  We  can  marry  her  to  another  in 
a  short  time,  and  what  is  more,  she  may  keep  her 
lover  beside  ;  for  I  protest  I  shall  ever  continue  to 
have  a  true  regard  for  her." 

I  found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  de- 
grading proposal ;  for  though  the  mind  may  often 
be  calm  under  great  injuries,  little  villany  can  at 
any  time  get  within  the  soul,  and  sting  it  into  rage. 
a  Avoid  my  sight,  thou  reptile !"  cried  I,  "  nor  con- 
tinue to  insult  me  with  thy  presence.  Were  my 
brave  son  at  home  he  would  not  suffer  this ;  but  I 
am  old  and  disabled,  and  every  way  undone." 

"  I  find,"  cried  he,  "  you  are  bent  upon  obliging 
me  to  talk  in  a  harsher  manner  than  I  intended. 
But  as  I  have  shown  you  what  may  be  hoped  from 
my  friendship,  it  may  not  be  improper  to  represent 
what  may  be  the  consequences  of  my  resentment. 
My  attorney,  to  whom  your  late  bond  has  been 
transferred,  threatens  hard,  nor  do  I  know  how  to 
prevent  the  course  of  justice,  except  by  paying  the 
money  myself,  which,  as  I  have  been  at  some  ex- 
penses lately,  previous  to  my  intended  marriage,  is 
not  so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then  my  steward  talks 
of  driving  for  the,  rent :  it  is  certain  he  knows  his 
duty ;  for  I  never  trouble  myself  with  affairs  of 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


191 


that  nature.  Yet  still  I  could  wish  to  serve  you, 
and  even  to  have  you  and  your  daughter  present 
at  my  marriage,  which  is  shortly  to  be  solemnized 
with  Miss  Wilmot ;  it  is  even  the  request  of  my 
charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I  hope  you  will 
not  refuse." 

"  Mr.  Thornhill,"  replied  I,  "  hear  me  once  for 
all :  As  to  your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daugh- 
ter, that  I  never  will  consent  to ;  and  though  your 
friendship  could  raise  me  to  a  throne,  or  your 
resentment  sink  me  to  the  grave,  yet  would  I  de- 
spise both.  Thou  hast  once  wofully,  irreparably  de- 
ceived me.  I  reposed  my  heart  upon  thine  honour, 
and  have  found  its  baseness.  Never  more  therefore 
expect  friendship  from  me.  Go,  and  possess  what 
fortune  has  given  thee,  beauty,  riches,  health,  and 
pleasure.  Go,  and  leave  me  to  want,  infamy,  dis- 
ease and  sorrow.  Yet,  humbled  as  I  am,  shall  my 
heart  still  vindicate  its  dignity ;  and  though  thou 
hast  my  forgiveness,  thou  shalt  ever  have  my 
contempt." 

"  If  so,"  returned  he,  "  depend  upon  it  you  shall 
feel  the  effects  of  this  insolence  !  and  we  shall 
shortly  see  which  is  the  fittest  object  of  scorn,  you 
or  me." — Upon  which  he  departed  abruptly. 

My  wife  and  son,  who  were  present  at  this  inter- 
view, seemed  terrified  with  apprehension.  My 
daughters,  also,  finding  that  he  was  gone,  came  out 
to  be  informed  of  the  result  of  our  conference, 


192 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


which,  when  known,  alarmed  them  not  less  then  the 
rest.  But  as  to  my  myself,  I  disregarded  the  ut- 
most stretch  of  his  malevolence :  he  had  already 
struck  the  blow,  and  now  I  stood  prepared  to  repel 
every  new  effort;  like  one  of  those  instruments 
used  in  the  art  of  war,  which,  however  thrown, 
still  presents  a  point  to  receive  the  enemy. 

We  soon  however  found  that  he  had  not  threat- 
ened in  vain  ;  for  the  very  next  morning  his  stew- 
ard came  to  demand  my  annual  rent,  which  by  the 
train  of  accidents  already  related,  I  was  unable  to 
pay.  The  consequence  of  my  incapacity  was  his 
driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and  their  being  ap- 
praised and  sold  the  next  day  for  less  than  half 
their  value. — My  wife  and  children  now  therefore 
entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms,  rather  than 
incur  certain  destruction.  They  even  begged  of 
me  to  admit  his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all  their 
little  eloquence  to  paint  the  calamities  I  was  going 
to  endure ; — the  terrors  of  a  prison  in  so  rigorous  a 
season  as  the  present,  with  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened my  health  from  the  late  accident  that  hap- 
pened by  the  fire.    But  I  continued  inflexible. 

"  Why,  my  treasures,"  cried  I,  "  why  will  you 
thus  attempt  to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is 
not  right !  My  duty  has  taught  me  to  forgive  him, 
but  my  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  approve. 
Would  you  have  me  applaud  to  the  world  what  my 
heart  must  internally  condemn?  Would  you  have  me 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


193 


tamely  sit  down  and  flatter  our  infamous  be  Layer; 
and,  to  avoid  a  prison,  continually  suffer  tho  more 
galling  bonds  of  mental  confinement?  No,  never. 
If  we  are  to  be  taken  from  this  abode,  only  let  us 
hold  to  the  right ;  and  wherever  we  are  thrown,  we 
can  still  retire  to  a  charming  apartment,  when  we 
can  look  round  our  own  hearts  with  intrepidity 
and  pleasure !" 

In  this  manner  we  spent  that  evening.  Early 
the  next  morning,  as  the  snow  had  fallen  in  great 
abundance  in  the  night,  my  son  was  employed  in 
clearing  it  away,  and  opening  a  passage  before  the 
door.  He  had  not  been  thus  engaged  long,  when 
he  came  running  in,  with  looks  all  pale,  to  tell  us 
that  two  strangers,  whom  he  knew  to  be  officers  of 
the  justice,  were  making  towards  the  house. 

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and  approaching 
the  bed  where  I  lay,  after  previously  informing  me 
of  their  employment  and  business,  made  me  their 
prisoner,  bidding  me  prepare  to  go  with  them  to  the 
county  gaol,  which  was  eleven  miles  off. 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  this  is  severe  weather  in 
which  you  have  come  to  take  me  to  a  prison ;  and  it 
is  particularly  unfortunate  at  this  time,  as  one  of 
my  arms  has  lately  been  burnt  in  a  terrible  manner, 
and  it  has  thrown  me  into  a  slight  fever,  and  I 
want  clothes  to  cover  me ;  and  I  am  now  too  weak 
and  old  to  walk  far  in  such  deep  snow ;  but  if  it 
must  be  so  " 


194 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I  then  turned  to  my  wife  and  children,  and  di- 
rected  them  to  get  together  what  few  things  were 
left  us,  and  prepare  immediately  for  leaving  thi^ 
place.  I  entreated  them  to  be  expeditious,  and  de 
sired  my  son  to  assist  his  eldest  sister,  who  from  a 
consciousness  that  she  was  the  cause  of  all  our  ca- 
lamities, was  fallen,  and  had  lost  anguish  in  insen- 
sibility. I  encouraged  my  wife,  who,  pale  and 
trembling,  clasped  our  affrighted  little  ones  in  her 
arms,  that  clung  to  her  bosom  in  silence,  dreading 
to  look  round  at  the  strangers.  In  the  meantime 
my  youngest  daughter  prepared  for  our  departure, 
and  as  she  received  several  hints  to  use  dispatch, 
in  about  an  hour  we  were  ready  to  depart. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

No  situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but  has  some  sort  of  comfort 
attending  it. 

We  set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neighbourhood, 
and  walked  on  slowly.  My  eldest  daughter  being 
enfeebled  by  a  slow  fever,  which  had  begun  for 
some  days  to  undermine  her  constitution,  one  of 
the  officers,  who  had  a  horse,  kindly  took  her  be- 
hind him ;  for  even  these  men  cannot  entirely  divest 
themselves  of  humanity.  My  son  led  one  of  the 
little  ones  by  the  hand,  and  my  wife  the  other, 
while  I  leaned  upon  my  youngest  girl,  whose  tears 
fell  not  for  her  own  but  my  distresses. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


195 


We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about 
two  miles,  when  we  saw  a  crowd  running  and 
shouting  behind  us,  consisting  of  about  fifty  of  my 
poorest  parishioners.  These,  with  dreadful  impre- 
cations, soon  seized  upon  the  two  officers  of  justice, 
and  swearing  they  would  never  see  their  minister  go 
to  gaol  while  they  had  a  drop  of  blood  to  shed  in  his 
defence,  were  going  to  use  them  with  great  severity. 
The  consequence  might  have  been  fatal  had  I  not 
immediately  interposed,  and  with  some  difficulty 
rescued  the  officers  from  the  hands  of  the  enraged 
multitude.  My  children,  who  looked  upon  my  de- 
livery now  as  certain,  appeared  transported  with 
joy,  and  were  incapable  of  containing  their  raptures. 
But  they  were  soon  undeceived,  upon  hearing  me 
address  the  poor  deluded  people,  who  came  as  they 
imagined  to  do  me  service. 

"  What !  my  friends,"  cried  I,  "  and  is  this  the 
way  you  love  me  ?  Is  this  the  manner  you  obey 
the  instructions  I  have  given  you  from  the  pulpit? 
Thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  justice,  and  bring  down 
ruin  on  yourselves  and  me !  Which  is  your  ring- 
leader? Show  me  the  man  that  has  thus  seduced 
you.  As  sure  as  he  lives  he  shall  feel  my  resent- 
ment.— -Alas !  my  dear  deluded  flock,  return  back 
to  the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and 
to  me.  I  shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in 
greater  felicity  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your 
lives  more  happy.    But  let  it  at  least  be  my  com- 

IS 


196 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


fort  when  I  pen  my  fold  for  immortality,  that  not 
one  here  shall  be  wanting." 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and  melting 
into  tears,  came  one  after  the  other  to  bid  me  fare- 
well. I  shook  each  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and 
leaving  them  my  blessing,  proceeded  forward  with- 
out meeting  any  further  interruption.  Some  hours 
before  night  we  reached  the  town,  or  rather  village, 
for  it  consisted  but  of  a  few  mean  houses,  having 
lost  all  its  former  opulence,  and  retaining  no  marks 
of  its  ancient  superiority  but  the  gaol. 

Upon  entering  we  put  up  at  the  inn,  where  we 
had  such  refreshments  as  could  most  readily  be  pro- 
cured, and  I  supped  with  my  family  with  my  usual 
cheerfulness.  After  seeing  them  properly  accommo- 
dated for  that  night,  I  next  attended  the  sheriff's 
officers  to  the  prison,  which  had  formerly  been  built 
for  the  purpose  of  war,  and  consisted  of  one  large 
apartment,  strongly  grated  and  paved  with  stone, 
common  to  both  felons  and  debtors  at  certain  hours 
in  the  four-and-twenty.  Besides  this,  every  pri- 
soner had  a  separate  cell,  where  he  was  locked  in  for 
the  night. 

I  expected  upon  my  entrance  to  find  nothing  but 
lamentations  and  various  sounds  of  misery  :  but  it 
was  very  different.  The  prisoners  seemed  all  em- 
ployed in  one  common  design,  that  of  forgetting 
thought  in  merriment  or  clamour.  I  was  apprised 
of  the  usual  perquisite  required  upon  these  occasions, 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


197 


and  immediately  complied  with  the  demand,  though 
the  little  money  I  had  was  very  near  being  all  ex- 
hausted. This  was  immediately  sent  away  for 
liquor,  and  the  whole  prison  soon  was  filled  with 
riot,  laughter,  and  profaneness. 

66  How,"  cried  I  to  myself,  "  shall  men  so  very 
wicked  be  cheerful,  and  shall  I  be  melancholy  ? 
I  feel  only  the  same  confinement  with  them,  and 
I  think  I  have  more  reason  to  be  happy." 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become  cheer- 
ful, but  cheerfulness  was  never  yet  produced  by 
effort,  which  is  itself  painful.  As  I  was  sitting, 
therefore,  in  a  corner  of  the  gaol  in  a  pensive  pos- 
ture, one  of  my  fellow-prisoners  came  up,  and  sit- 
ting by  me,  entered  into  conversation.  It  was  my 
constant  rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conversation 
of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it :  for,  if  good, 
I  might  profit  by  his  instruction ;  if  bad  he  might 
be  assisted  by  mine.  I  found  this  to  be  a  knowing 
man,  of  strong  unlettered  sense,  but  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  world,  as  it  is  called,  or  more 
properly  speaking,  of  human  nature  on  the  wrong 
side.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  taken  care  to  provide 
myself  with  a  bed,  which  was  a  circumstance  I  had 
never  attended  to. 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  cried  he,  "  as  you  are  al- 
lowed here  nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apartment 
is  very  large  and  cold.  However,  you  seem  to  be 
something  of  a  gentleman,  and  as  I  have  been  one 


198 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


myself  in  my  time,  part  of  my  bed-clothes  are 
heartily  at  your  service." 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  finding 
such  humanity  in  a  gaol  in  misfortunes ;  adding  to 
let  him  see  that  I  was  a  scholar,  "  That  the  sage 
ancient  seemed  to  understand  the  value  of  com- 
pany in  affliction,  when  he  said,  Ton  kosmon  aire,  ei 
dos  ton  etairon ;  and  in  fact,"  continued  I,  "what 
is  the  world  if  it  affords  only  solitude  ?" 

"  You  talk  of  the  world,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow- 
prisoner  ;  "  the  world  is  in  its  dotage  ;  and  yet  the 
cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world  has  puzzled  the 
philosophers  of  every  age.  What  a  medley  of 
opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  creation 
of  the  world  !  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Berosus, 
and  Ocellus  Lucanus,  have  all  attempted  it  in  vain. 
The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarclion  ara  Jcai  atelu- 
taion  to  pan,  which  imply — "  "  I  ask  pardon,  sir," 
cried  I,  "  for  interrupting  so  much  learning ;  but  I 
think  I  have  heard  all  this  before.  Have  I  not  had 
the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at  Welbridge  fair, 
and  is  not  your  name  Ephraim  Jenkinson?"  At 
this  demand  he  only  sighed.  "  I  suppose  you  must 
recollect,"  resumed  I,  "  one  Doctor  Primrose,  from 
whom  you  bought  a  horse  ?" 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me  ;  for  the  gloomi- 
ness of  the  place  and  the  approaching  night  had 
prevented  his  distinguishing  my  features  before. — 
"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson,  "  I  remembei 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


199 


you  perfectly  well ;  I  bought  a  horse,  but  forgot  to 
pay  for  him.  Your  neighbour  Flamborough  is  the 
only  prosecutor  I  am  any  way  afraid  of  at  the  next 
assizes ;  for  he  intends  to  swear  positively  against 
me  as  a  coiner.  I  am  heartily  sorry,  sir,  I  ever 
deceived  you,  or  indeed  any  man  ;  for  you  see," 
continued  he,  showing  his  shackles,  "what  my 
tricks  have  brought  me  to." 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  your  kindness  in  offering 
me  assistance  when  you  could  expect  no  return, 
shall  be  repaid  with  my  endeavours  to  soften  or 
totally  suppress  Mr.  Flamborough's  evidence,  and  I 
will  send  my  son  to  him  for  that  purpose  the  first 
opportunity ;  nor  do  I  in  the  least  doubt  but  he 
will  comply  with  my  request ;  and  as  to  my  own 
evidence,  you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about 
that." 

"  Well,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  all  the  return  I  can  make 
shall  be  yours.  You  shall  have  more  than  half  my 
bed-clothes  to-night,  and  I'll  take  care  to  stand 
yjur  friend  in  the  prison,  where  I  think  I  have 
some  influence." 

I  thanked  him,  and  could  not  avoid  being  sur- 
prised at  the  present  youthful  change  in  his  aspect, 
for  at  the  time  I  had  seen  him  before,  he  appeared 
at  least  sixty. — "Sir,"  answered  he,  "you  are  little 
acquainted  with  the  world  ;  I  had  at  that  time  false 
hair,  and  have  learned  the  art  of  counterfeiting 
every  age  from  seventeen  to  seventy.    Ah  !  sir, 


200 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


had  I  but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in  learning  a 
trade  that  I  have  in  learning  to  be  a  scoundrel,  I 
might  have  been  a  rich  man  at  this  day.  But 
rogue  as  I  am,  still  I  may  be  your  friend,  and  that 
perhaps  when  you  least  expect  it." 

We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversa- 
tion by  the  arrival  of  the  gaolers  servants,  who 
came  to  call  over  the  prisoners  names  and  lock  up 
for  the  night.  A  fellow  also  with  a  bundle  of  straw 
for  my  bed  attended,  who  led  me  along  a  dark 
narrow  passage  into  a  room  paved  like  the  common 
prison,  and  in  one  corner  of  this  I  spread  my  bed, 
and  the  clothes  given  me  by  my  fellow-prisoner; 
which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was  civil  enough, 
bade  me  a  good  night.  After  my  usual  meditations, 
and  having  praised  my  Heavenly  Corrector,  I  laid 
myself  down,  and  slept  with  the  utmost  tranquillity 
till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  Reformation  in  the  Gaol. — To  make  laws  complete,  they  should 
Reward  as  well  as  Punish. 

The  next  morning  early  I  was  awakened  by  my 
family,  whom  I  found  in  tears  at  my  bed-side.  The 
gloomy  strength  of  every  thing  about  us,  it  seems, 
had  daunted  them.  I  gently  rebuked  their  sorrow, 
assuring  them  I  had  never  slept  with  greater  tran- 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELT. 


201 


quillity,  and  next  inquired  after  my  eldest  daughter, 
who  was  not  among  them.  They  informed  me  that 
yesterday's  uneasiness  and  fatigue  had  increased 
her  fever,  and  it  was  judged  proper  to  leave  her 
behind.  My  next  care  was  to  send  my  son  to  pro- 
cure a  room  or  two  to  lodge  the  family  in,  as  near 
the  prison  as  conveniently  could  be  found.  He 
obeyed ;  but  could  only  find  one  apartment,  which 
was  hired  at  a  small  expense  for  his  mother  and 
sisters,  the  gaoler  with  humanity  consenting  to  let 
him  and  his  two  little  brothers  lie  in  the  prison 
with  me.  A  bed  was  therefore  prepared  for  them 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  which  I  thought  answered 
very  conveniently.  I  was  willing,  however,  pre- 
viously to  know  whether  my  children  chose  to  lie 
in  a  place  which  seemed  to  fright  them  upon 
entrance. 

"  Well,"  cried  I,  "  my  good  boys,  how  do  you 
like  your  bed  ?  I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in 
this  room,  dark  as  it  appears  ?" 

"  No,  papa,"  says  Dick,  "  I  am  not  afraid  to  lie 
any  where  where  you  are." 

"And  I,"  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years 
old,  "  love  every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in." 

After  this  I  allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what 
they  were  to  do.  My  daughter  was  particularly 
directed  to  watch  her  declining  sisters  health ;  my 
wife  was  to  attend  me ;  my  little  boys  were  to  read 
to  me.    "  And  as  for  you,  my  son,"  continued  I, 


202 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"  it  is  by  the  labour  of  your  hands  we  must  all  hope 
to  be  supported.  Your  wages  as  a  day-labourer 
will  be  fully  sufficient,  with  proper  frugality,  to 
maintain  us  all,  and  comfortably  too.  Thou  art 
now  sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength ;  and  it 
was  given  thee,  my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes ; 
for  it  must  save  from  famine  your  helpless  parents 
and  family.  Prepare  then  this  evening  to  look  out 
for  work  against  to-morrow,  and  bring  home  every 
night  what  money  you  can  earn  for  our  support." 

Having  thus  instructed  him,  and  settled  the 
rest,  I  walked  down  to  the  common  prison,  where 
I  could  enjoy  more  air  and  room.  But  I  was  not 
long  there  when  the  execrations,  lewdness  and 
brutality  that  invaded  me  on  every  side,  drove  me 
back  to  my  apartment  again.  Here  I  sat  for  some 
time  pondering  upon  the  strange  infatuation  of 
wretches,  who,  finding  all  mankind  in  open  arms 
against  them,  were  labouring  to  make  themselves 
a  future  and  a  tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compas- 
sion, and  blotted  my  own  uneasiness  from  my  mind. 
It  even  appeared  a  duty  incumbent  upon  me  to 
attempt  to  reclaim  them.  I  resolved  therefore  once 
more  to  return,  and,  in  spite  of  their  contempt,  to 
give  them  my  advice,  and  conquer  them  by  my 
perseverance.  Going  therefore  among  them  again, 
I  informed  Mr.  Jenkinson  of  my  design,  at  which 
Ire  laughed  heartily,  but  communicated  it  to  the 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


203 


reA.  The  proposal  was  received  with  the  greatest 
good-humour,  as  it  promised  to  afford  a  new  f  ind 
of  entertainment  to  persons  who  had  now  nc  othes 
resource  for  mirth,  but  what  could  be  derive  !  from 
ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service 
with  a  loud  unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audi- 
ence perfectly  merry  upon  the  occasion.  Lewd 
whispers,  groans  of  contrition  burlesqued,  winking 
and  coughing,  alternately  excited  laughter.  How- 
ever I  continued  with  my  natural  solemnity  to 
read  on,  sensible  that  what  I  did  might  mend 
some,  but  could  itself  receive  no  contamination  from 
any. 

After  reading  I  entered  upon  my  exhortation, 
which  was  rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them 
than  to  reprove.  I  previously  observed,  that  no 
other  motive  but  their  welfare  could  induce  me  to 
this ;  that  I  was  their  fellow-prisoner,  and  now  got 
nothing  by  preaching.  I  was  sorry,  I  said,  to  hear 
them  so  very  profane ;  because  they  got  nothing  by 
it,  but  might  lose  a  great  deal :  "  For  be  assured, 
my  friends,"  cried  I,  "  for  you  are  my  friends,  how- 
ever the  world  may  disclaim  your  friendship,  though 
you  swore  twelve  thousand  oaths  in  a  day.  it  would 
not  put  one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what  sig- 
nifies calling  every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and 
courting  his  friendship,  since  you  find  how  scurvily 
he  uses  you  ?    He  has  given  you  nothing  here,  you 


204 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths  and  an  empty  belly  > 
and  by  the  best  accounts  I  have  of  him,  he  will 
give  you  nothing  that's  good  hereafter. 

"  If  used  ill  in  our  dealings  with  one  man,  we 
naturally  go  elsewhere.  Were  it  not  worth  your 
while,  then,  just  to  try  how  you  may  like  the  usage 
of  another  master,  who  gives  you  fair  promises  at 
least*  to  come  to  him  ?  Surely,  my  friends,  of  all 
stupidity  in  the  world,  his  must  be  the  greatest, 
who  after  robbing  a  house,  runs  to  the  thief-takers 
for  protection,  And  yet  how  are  you  more  wise  ? 
You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from  one  that  has 
already  betrayed  you,  applying  to  a  more  malicious 
being  than  any  thief  taker  of  them  all;  for  they 
only  decoy  and  then  hang  you :  but  he  decoys  and 
hangs,  and  what  is  worst  of  all,  will  not  let  you 
loose  after  the  hangman  has  done." 

When  I  had  concluded,  I  received  the  compli- 
ments of  my  audience,  some  of  whom  came  and 
shook  me  by  the  hand,  swearing  that  I  was  a  very 
honest  fellow,  and  that  they  desired  my  further 
acquaintance.  I  therefore  promised  to  repeat  my 
lecture  next  day,  and  actually  conceived  some 
hopes  of  making  a  reformation  here ;  for  it  had 
ever  been  my  opinion,  that  no  man  was  past  the 
hour  of  amendment,  every  heart  lying  open  to  the 
shafts  of  reproof,  if  the  archer  could  but  take 
a  proper  aim.  When  I  had  thus  satisfied  my  mind, 
I  went  back  to  my  apartment,  where  my  wife  pre- 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


205 


pared  a  frugal  meal,  while  Mr.  Jenkinson  begged 
leave  to  add  his  dinner  to  ours,  and  partake  of  the 
pleasure,  as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express  it,  of 
my  conversations.  He  had  not  yet  seen  my  fami- 
ly ;  for  as  they  came  to  my  apartment  by  a  door  in 
the  narrow  passage  already  described,  by  this  means 
they  avoided  the  common  prison.  Jenkinson  at 
the  first  interview,  therefore,  seemed  not  a  little 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  my  youngest  daughter, 
which  her  pensive  air  contributed  to  heighten ;  and 
my  little  ones  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"  Alas,  doctor,"  cried  he,  "  these  children  are  too 
handsome  and  too  good  for  such  a  place  as  this !" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson !"  replied  I,  "  thank  Hea- 
ven my  children  are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals ;  and 
if  they  be  good,  it  matters  little  for  the  rest." 

"  I  fancy,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow-prisoner, 
"  that  it  must  give  you  great  comfort  to  have  all 
this  little  family  about  you." 

"  A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson !"  replied  I ;  "  yes, 
it  is  indeed  a  comfort,  and  I  would  not  be  without 
them  for  all  the  world ;  for  they  can  make  a  dun- 
geon seem  a  palace.  There  is  but  one  way  in  this 
life  of  wounding  my  happiness,  and  that  is  by  in- 
juring them. 

"  I  am  afraid  then,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  am  in 
some  measure  culpable ;  for  I  think  I  see  here 
(looking  at  my  son  Moses),  one  that  I  have  injured, 
and  by  whom  I  wish  to  be  forgiven." 


206 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


My  son  immediately  recollected  Iris  voice  and 
features,  though  he  had  before  seen  him  in  disguise, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  with  a  smile  forgave 
him.  "  Yet/'  continued  he,  "  I  can't  help  wonder- 
ing at  what  you  could  see  in  my  face,  to  think  me 
a  proper  mark  for  deception." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  returned  the  other,  "  it  was  not 
your  face,  but  your  white  stockings,  and  the  black 
riband  in  your  hair,  that  allured  me.  But  no  dis- 
paragement to  your  parts,  I  have  deceived  wiser 
men  than  you  in  my  time  ;  and  yet,  with  all  my 
tricks,  the  blockheads  have  been  too  many  for  me 
at  last." 

"  I  suppose,"  cried  my  son,  "that  the  narrative  of 
such  a  life  as  yours  must  be  extremely  instructive 
and  amusing." 

"  Not  much  of  either,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson. 
"  Those  relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and 
vices  only  of  mankind,  by  increasing  our  suspicion 
in  life,  retard  our  success.  The  traveller  that  dis- 
trusts every  person  he  meets,  and  turns  back  upon 
the  appearance  of  every  man  that  looks  like  a  rob- 
ber, seldom  arrives  in  time  at  his  journey's  end. 

"  Indeed  I  think,  from  my  own  experience,  that 
the  knowing  one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the  sun. 
I  was  thought  cunning  from  my  very  childhood : 
when  but  seven  years  old,  the  ladies  would  say  that 
I  was  a  perfect  little  man ;  at  fourteen  I  knew  the 
world,  cocked  my  hat,  and  loved  the  ladies ;  at 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


207 


k  <enty,  though  I  was  perfectly  honest,  yet  every 
one  thought  me  so  cunning  that  not  one  would  trust 
me.  Thus  I  was  at  last  obliged  to  turn  sharper  in 
my  own  defence,  and  have  lived  ever  since,  my 
head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  deceive,  and  my 
heart  palpitating  with  fears  of  detection.  I  used 
often  to  laugh  at  your  honest,  simple  neighbour 
Flamborough,  and  .one  way  or  another  generally 
cheated  him  once  a  year.  Yet  still  the  honest  man 
went  forward  without  suspicion,  and  grew  rich, 
while  I  still  continued  tricksy  and  cunning,  and 
was  poor,  without  the  consolation  of  being  honest. 
However,"  continued  he,  "  let  me  know  your  case, 
and  what  has  brought  you  here  ;  perhaps,  though  I 
have  not  skill  to  avoid  a  gaol  myself,  I  may  extri- 
cate my  friends." 

In  compliance  with  his  curiosity,  I  informed  him 
of  the  whole  train  of  accidents  and  follies  that  had 
plunged  me  into  my  present  troubles,  and  my  utter 
inability  to  get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  min- 
utes, he  slapped  his  forehead,  as  if  he  had  hit  upon 
something  materia1,  nnd  took  his  leave,  saying  he 
would  trv  what  could  be  done. 


208 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  same  subject  continued. 

The  next  morning  I  communicated  to  my  wife 
and  children  the  scheme  I  had  planned  of  reforming 
the  prisoners,  which  they  received  with  universal 
disapprobation,  alleging  the  impossibility  and  im- 
propriety of  it,  adding,  that  my  endeavours  would 
no  way  contribute  to  their  amendment,  but  might 
probably  disgrace  my  calling. 

"Excuse  me,"  returned  I,  "these  people,  however 
fallen,  are  still  men ;  and  that  is  a  very  good  title 
to  my  affections.  Good  counsel  rejected,  returns 
to  enrich  the  givers  bosom;  and  though  the  in- 
struction I  communicate  may  not  mend  them,  yet 
it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If  these  wretches, 
my  children,  were  princes,  there  would  be  thousands 
ready  to  offer  their  ministry ;  but  in  my  opinion, 
the  heart  that  is  buried  in  a  dungeon  is  as  precious 
as  that  seated  upon  a  throne.  Yes,  my  treasures, 
if  I  can  mend  them,  I  will :  perhaps  they  will  not 
all  despise  me.  Perhaps  I  may  catch  up  even  one 
from  the  gulf,  and  that  will  be  a  great  gain ;  for 
is  there  upon  earth  a  gem  so  precious  as  the  human 
soul ?" 

Thus  saying,  I  left  them,  and  descended  to  the 
common  prison,  where  I  found  the  prisoners  very 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


209 


merry,  expecting  my  arrival ;  and  each  prepared 
with  some  gaol  trick  to  play  upon  the  doctor.  Thus, 
as  I  was  going  to  begin,  one  turned  my  wig  awry, 
as  if  by  accident,  and  then  asked  my  pardon.  A 
second,  who  stood  at  some  distance,  had  a  knack 
of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  which  fell  in  showers 
upon  my  book.  A  third  would  cry  amen  in  such 
an  affected  tone,  as  gave  the  rest  great  delight.  A 
fourth  had  slily  picked  my  pocket  of  my  spectacles. 
But  there  was  one  whose  trick  gave  more  universal 
pleasure  than  all  the  rest ;  for  observing  the  man- 
ner in  which  I  had  disposed  my  books  on  the  table 
before  me,  he  very  dexterously  displaced  one  of 
them  and  put  an  obscence  jest-book  of  his  own  in 
the  place.  However,  I  took  no  notice  of  all  that 
this  mischievous  group  of  little  beings  could  do, 
but  went  on  perfectly  sensible  that  what  was  ridi- 
culous in  my  attempt  would  excite  mirth  only  the 
first  or  second  time,  while  what  was  serious  would 
be  permanent.  My  design  succeeded,  and  in  less 
than  six  days  some  were  penitent,  and  all  at- 
tentive. 

It  was  now  that  I  applauded  my  perseverance 
and  address,  at  thus  giving  sensibility  to  wretches 
divested  of  every  moral  feeling ;  and  now  began  to 
think  of  doing  them  temporal  services  also  by  ren- 
dering  their  situation  somewhat  more  comfortable. 
Their  time  had  hitherto  been  divided  between  fa- 
mine and  excess,  tumultuous  riot  and  bitter  repi- 


210 


VICAR    OF  WAK^FiELO. 


ning.  Their  only  employment  was  in  quarrelling 
among  each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and  cutting 
tobacco-stoppers.  Prom  this  last  mode  of  idle  in- 
dustry I  took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as  chose  tc 
work  at  cutting  pegs  for  tobacconists  and  shoe- 
makers, the  proper  wood  being  bought  by  a  general 
subscription,  and  when  manufactured,  sold  by  my 
appointment,  so  that  each  earned  something  every 
day — a  trifle  indeed,  but  sufficient  to  maintain  him 

I  did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the 
punishment  of  immorality,  and  rewards  for  peculiar 
industry.  Thus  in  less  than  a  fortnight  I  had 
formed  them  into  something  social  and  humane, 
and  had  the  pleasure  of  regarding  myself  as  a  le- 
gislator, who  had  brought  men  from  their  native 
ferocity  into  friendship  and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative 
power  wrould  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reforma- 
tion than  severity ;  that  it  would  seem  convinced, 
that  the  work  of  eradicating  crimes  is  not  by  ma- 
king punishments  familiar,  but  formidable.  Then, 
instead  of  our  present  prisons,  which  find  or  make 
men  guilty,  which  enclose  wretches  for  the  com- 
mission of  one  crime,  and  return  them,  if  returned 
alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of  thousands ;  we 
should  see,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe,  places  of 
penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might 
be  attended  by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance 
if  guilty,  or  new  motives  to  virtue  if  innocent. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


211 


And  this,  but  not  the  increasing  punishments,  is 
the  way  to  mend  a  state.  Nor  can  I  avoid  even 
questioning  the  validity  of  that  right  which  social 
combinations  have  assumed,  of  capitally  punishing 
offences  of  a  slight  nature.  In  cases  of  murder 
their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of  us  all, 
from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man 
who  has  shown  a  disregard  for  the  life  of  another. 
Against  such,  all  nature  rises  in  arms ;  but  it  is  not 
so  against  him  who  steals  my  property.  Natural 
law  gives  me  no  right  to  take  away  his  life,  as,  by 
that,  the  horse  he  steals  is  as  much  his  property  as 
mine.  If  then  I  have  any  right,  it  must  be  from 
a  compact  made  between  us,  that  he  who  deprives 
the  other  of  his  horse  shall  die.  But  this  is  a  false 
compact ;  because  no  man  has  a  right  to  barter  his 
life  any  more  than  to  take  it  away,  as  it  is  not  his 
own.  And  beside,  the  compact  is  inadequate,  and 
would  be  set  aside  even  in  a  court  of  modern  equity, 
as  there  is  a  great  penalty  for  a  very  trifling  con- 
venience, since  it  is  far  better  that  two  men  should 
live  than  that  one  man  should  ride.  But  a  com- 
pact that  is  false  between  two  men,  is  equally  so 
between  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  thousand  ;  for  as 
ten  million  of  circles  can  never  make  a  square,  so 
the  united  voice  of  myriads  cannot  lend  the  small- 
est foundation  to  falsehood.  It  is  thus  that  reason 
speaks,  and  untutored  nature  says  the  same  thing. 
Savages  that  are  directed  by  natural  law  alone,  are 

14 


212 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other ;  they  seldom 
shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in  war, 
had  but  few  executions  in  time  of  peace ;  and  in 
all  commencing  governments  that  have  the  print 
of  nature  still  strong  upon  them,  scarcely  any  crime 
is  held  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a  refined  community 
that  penal  laws,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
rich,  are  laid  upon  the  poor.  Government,  while 
it  grows  older,  seems  to  acquire  the  moroseness  of 
age;  and  as  if  our  property  were  become  dearer  in 
proportion  as  it  increased ;  as  if  the  more  enormous 
our  wealth  the  more  extensive  our  fears,  all  our 
possessions  are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every  day, 
and  hung  round  with  gibbets  to  scare  every 
invader. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  number  of 
our  penal  laws,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people, 
that  this  country  should  show  more  convicts  in  a 
year  than  half  the  dominions  of  Europe  united. 
Perhaps  it  is  owing  to  both ;  for  they  mutually 
produce  each  other.  When  by  indiscriminate  penal 
laws,  a  nation  beholds  the  same  punishment  affixed 
to  dissimilar  degrees  of  guilt,  from  perceiving  no 
distinction  in  the  penalty,  the  people  are  led  to  lose 
all  sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and  this  dis- 
tinction is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality ;  thus  the 
multitude  of  laws  produce  new  vices,  and  new  vices 
call  for  fresh  restraints. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


213 


It  were  to  be  wished  then,  that  power,  instead 
of  contriving  new  laws  to  punish  vice  :  instead 
of  drawing  hard  the  cords  of  society  till  a  con- 
vulsion comes  to  burst  them;  instead  of  cutting 
away  wretches  as  useless  before  we  have  tried  their 
utility ;  instead  of  converting  correction  into  ven- 
geance,— it  were  to  be  wished  that  we  tried  the 
restrictive  arts  of  government,  and  made  law  the 
protector,  but  not  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  We 
should  then  find  that  creatures,  whose  souls  are 
held  as  dross,  only  wanted  the  hand  of  a  refiner  : 
we  should  then  find  that  creatures,  now  stuck  up 
for  long  tortures,  lest  luxury  should  feel  a  momen- 
tary pang,  might,  if  properly  treated,  serve  to  sinew 
the  state  in  times  of  danger ;  that  as  their  faces 
are  like  ours,  their  hearts  are  so  too ;  that  few 
minds  are  so  base  that  perseverance  cannot  amend ; 
that  a  man  may  see  his  last  crime  without  dying 
for  it ;  and  that  very  little  blood  will  serve  to  ce- 
ment our  security. 


214 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Happiness  and  Misery  rather  the  result  of  prudence  than  of  virtue 
in  this  life ;  temporal  evils  or  felicities  being  regarded  by  Heaven 
as  things  merely  in  themselves  trifling,  and  unworthy  its  care  in 
the  distribution. 

I  had  now  been  confined  more  than  a  fortnight, 
but  had  not  since  my  arrival  been  visited  by  my 
dear  Olivia,  and  I  greatly  longed  to  see  her.  Ha- 
ving communicated  my  wishes  to  my  wife  the  next 
morning  the  poor  girl  entered  my  apartment  leaning 
on  her  sister's  arm.  The  change  which  I  saw  in 
her  countenance  struck  me.  The  numberless  graces 
that  once  resided  there  were  now  fled,  and  the 
hand  of  death  seemed  to  have  moulded  every  fea- 
ture to  alarm  me.  Her  temples  were  sunk,  her 
forehead  was  tense,  and  a  fatal  paleness  sat  upon 
her  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "  but 
why  this  dejection,  Livy  ?  I  hope,  my  love,  you 
have  too  great  a  regard  for  me  to  permit  disappoint- 
ment thus  to  undermine  a  life  which  I  prize  as  my 
own.  Be  cheerful,  child,  and  we  yet  may  see  hap- 
pier days." 

"  You  have  ever,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  been  kind  to 
me,  and  it  adds  to  my  pain  that  I  shall  never  have 
an  opportunity  of  sharing  that  happiness  you  pro- 
mise.   Happiness,  I  fear,  is  no  longer  reserved  for 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


215 


me  here ;  and  I  long  to  be  rid  of  a  place  where  1 
have  only  found  distress.  Indeed,  sir,  I  wish  you 
would  make  a  proper  submission  to  Mr.  Thornhill, 
it  may  in  some  measure  induce  him  to  pity  you, 
and  it  will  give  me  relief  in  dying." 

"  Never,  child/'  replied  I ;  "  never  will  I  be 
brought  to  acknowledge  my  daughter  a  prostitute; 
for  though  the  world  may  look  upon  your  offence 
with  scorn,  let  it  be  mine  to  regard  it  as  a  mark  of 
credulity,  not  of  guilt. — My  dear,  I  am  no  way 
miserable  in  this  place,  however  dismal  it  may 
seem ;  and  be  assured,  that  while  you  continue  to 
bless  me  by  living,  he  shall  never  have  my  consent 
to  make  you  more  wretched  by  marrying  another." 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow- 
prisoner,  who  was  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly 
enough  expostulated  upon  my  obstinacy  in  refu- 
sing a  submission  which  promised  to  give  me  free- 
dom. He  observed,  that  the  rest  of  my  family 
were  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  peace  of  one  child 
alone,  and  she  the  only  one  who  had  offended  me, 
"  Beside,"  added  he,  "  I  don't  know  if  it  be  just 
thus  to  obstruct  the  union  of  man  and  wife,  which 
you  do  at  present,  by  refusing  to  consent  to  a 
match  you  cannot  hinder,  but  may  render  unhappy." 

"  Sir,"  replied  I,  "you  are  unacquainted  with  the 
man  that  oppresses  us.  I  am  very  sensible  that 
no  submissi  >n  I  can  make  would  procure  me  liberty 
even  for  an  hour.    I  am  told  that  even  in  this 


216 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


very  room  a  debtor  of  his,  no  later  than  last  year, 
died  for  want.  But  though  my  submission  and  ap- 
probation could  transfer  me  from  hence  to  the  most 
beautiful  apartment  he  is  possessed  of,  yet  I  would 
grant  neither,  as  something  whispers  me  it  would 
be  giving  a  sanction  to  adultery.  While  my  daugh- 
ter lives,  no  other  marriage  of  his  shall  ever  be 
legal  in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed,  indeed,  I 
should  be  the  basest  of  men,  from  any  resentment 
of  my  own,  to  attempt  putting  asunder  those  who 
wish  for  a  union.  No,  villain  as  he  is,  I  should 
then  wish  him  married,  to  prevent  the  consequences 
of  his  future  debaucheries.  But  now,  should  I  not 
be  the  most  cruel  of  all  fathers  to  sign  an  instru- 
ment which  must  send  my  child  to  the  grave, 
merely  to  avoid  a  prison  myself ;  and  thus  to  escape 
one  pang,  break  my  child's  heart  with  a  thousand?" 

He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but 
could  not  avoid  observing,  that  he  feared  my  daugh- 
ter's life  was  already  too  much  wasted  to  keep 
me  long  a  prisoner.  u  However,"  continued  he, 
"  though  you  refuse  to  submit  to  the  nephew,  I 
hope  you  have  no  objections  to  laying  your  case 
before  the  uncle,  who  has  the  first  character  in 
the  kingdom  for  every  thing  that  is  just  and  good. 
I  would  advise  you  to  send  him  a  letter  by  the  post, 
intimating  all  his  nephew's  ill  usage,  and  my  life 
for  it,  that  in  three  days  you  shall  have  an  answer." 
I  thanked  him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly  set  about 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELL 


217 


complying ;  but  I  wanted  paper,  and  unluckily  all 
our  money  had  been  laid  out  that  morning  in  pro 
visions :  however,  he  supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I  was  in  a  state 
of  anxiety  to  know  what  reception  my  letter  might 
meet  with ;  but  in  the  meantime  was  frequently 
solicited  by  my  wife  to  submit  to  any  conditions 
rather  than  remain  here,  and  every  hour  received 
repeated  accounts  of  the  decline  of  my  daughter's 
health.  The  third  day  and  the  fourth  arrived,  but 
I  received  no  answer  to  my  letter :  the  complaints 
of  a  stranger  against  a  favourite  nephew  were  no 
way  likely  to  succeed ;  so  that  these  hopes  soon 
vanished  like  all  my  former.  My  mind,  however, 
still  supported  itself,  though  confinement  and  bad 
air  began  to  make  a  visible  alteration  in  my  health, 
and  my  arm  that  had  suffered  in  the  fire  grew  worse. 
My  children,  however,  sat  by  me,  and  while  I  was 
stretched  on  the  straw,  read  to  me  by  turns,  or 
listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions.  But  my 
daughter's  health  declined  faster  than  mine  :  every 
message  from  her  contributed  to  increase  my  appre- 
hensions and  pain.  The  fifth  morning  after  I  had 
written  the  letter  which  was  sent  to  Sir  William 
Thornhill,  I  was  alarmed  with  an  account  that  she 
was  speechless.  Now  it  was  that  confinement  was 
truly  painful  to  me ;  my  soul  was  bursting  from  its 
prison  to  be  near  the  pillow  of  my  child,  to  comfort, 
to  strengthen  her,  and  to  receive  her  last  wishes, 


218 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  teach  her  soul  the  way  to  heaven  !  Another 
account  came  ;  she  was  expiring,  and  yet  I  was  de- 
barred the  small  comfort  of  weeping  by  her.  My 
fellow-prisoner  some  time  after  came  with  the  last 
account.  He  bade  me  be  patient ;  she  was  dead  ! 
The  next  morning  he  returned,  and  found  me  with 
my  two  little  ones,  now  my  only  companions,  who 
were  using  all  their  innocent  efforts  to  comfort  me. 
They  entreated  to  read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  to 
cry,  for  I  was  now  too  old  to  weep.  "  And  is  not 
my  sister  an  angel  now,  papa  ?"  cried  the  eldest ; 
"  and  why  then  are  you  sorry  for  her  ?  I  wish  I 
were  an  angel  out  of  this  frightful  place,  if  my 
papa  were  with  me."  "  Yes,"  added  my  youngest 
darling,  "  Heaven,  where  my  sister  is,  is  a  finer 
place  than  this,  and  there  are  none  but  good  people 
there,  and  the  people  here  are  very  bad." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prattle 
by  observing,  that,  now  my  daughter  was  no  more, 
I  should  seriously  think  of  the  rest  of  my  family, 
and  attempt  to  save  my  own  life,  which  was  every 
day  declining  for  want  of  necessaries  and  whole- 
some air.  He  added,  that  it  was  now  incumbent 
on  me  to  sacrifice  any  pride  or  resentment  of  my 
own  to  the  welfare  of  those  who  depended  on  me 
for  support  ;  and  that  I  was  now,  both  by  reason 
and  justice,  obliged  to  try  to  reconcile  my  landlord. 

"Heaven  be  praised,"  replied  I,  "there  is  no 
pride  left  me  now ;  I  should  detest  my  own  heart 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


219 


if  I  saw  either  pride  or  resentment  lurking  there. 
On  the  contrary,  as  my  oppressor  has  been  once  my 
parishioner,  I  hope  one  day  to  present  him  up  an 
unpolluted  soul  at  the  eternal  tribunal.  No,  sir,  I 
have  no  resentment  now,  and  though  he  has  taken 
from  me  what  I  held  dearer  than  all  his  treasures, 
though  he  has  wrung  my  heart, — for  I  am  sick  al- 
most to  fainting,  very  sick,  my  fellow-prisoner, — 
yet  that  shall  never  inspire  me  with  vengeance.  I 
am  now  willing  to  approve  his  marriage ;  and  if 
this  submission  can  do  him  any  pleasure,  let  him 
know,  that  if  I  have  done  him  any  injury  I  am 
sorry  for  it." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote  down 
my  submission  nearly  as  I  have  expressed  it,  to 
which  I  signed  my  name.  My  son  was  employed 
to  carry  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  wTho  was  then 
at  his  seat  in  the  country.  He  went,  and  in  about 
six  hours  returned  with  a  verbal  answer.  He  had 
some  difficulty,  he  said,  to  get  a  sight  of  his  land- 
lord, as  the  servants  were  insolent  and  suspicious ; 
but  he  accidently  saw  him  as  he  was  going  out  up- 
on business,  preparing  for  his  marriage,  which  was 
to  be  in  three  days.  He  continued  to  inform  is, 
that  he  stepped  up  in  the  humblest  manner  and 
delivered  the  letter,  which,  when  Mr.  Thornhill 
had  read,  he  said  that  all  submission  was  now  too 
late  and  unnecessary  ;  that  he  had  heard  of  our 
application  to  his  uncle,  which  met  with  the  con- 


220 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


tempt  it  had  deserved;  and  as  for  the  rest,  that  all 
future  applications  should  be  directed  to  his  attor- 
ney, not  to  him.  He  observed,  however,  that  as 
he  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  the  discretion  of 
the  two  young  ladies  they  might  have  been  the 
most  agreeable  intercessors. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  I  to  my  fellow-prisoner,  "  you 
now  discover  the  temper  of  the  man  that  oppresses 
me.  He  can  at  once  be  facetious  and  cruel;  but  let 
him  use  me  as  he  will,  I  shall  soon  be  free,  in  spite 
of  all  his  bolts  to  restrain  me.  I  am  now  drawing 
towards  an  abode  that  looks  brighter  as  I  approach 
it;  this  expectation  cheers  my  afflictions,  and  though 
I  leave  a  helpless  family  of  orphans  behind  me, 
yet  they  will  not  be  utterly  forsaken,  some  friend 
perhaps  will  be  found  to  assist  them  for  the  sake 
of  their  poor  father,  and  some  may  charitably  relieve 
them  for  the  sake  of  their  Heavenly  Father." 

Just  as  I  spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I  had  not  seen 
that  day  before,  appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and 
making  efforts,  but  unable  to  speak.  "  Why,  my 
love,"  cried  I,  "  why  will  you  thus  increase  my  af- 
flictions by  your  own  ?  What  though  no  submis- 
sion can  turn  our  severe  master,  though  he  has 
doomed  me  to  die  in  this  place  of  wretchedness, 
and  though  we  have  lost  a  darling  child,  yet  still 
you  will  find  comfort  in  your  other  chilren  when  I 
shall  be  no  more."  "  We  have  indeed  lost,"  re- 
turned she,  "  a  darling  child.    My  Sophia,  my 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


221 


dearest,  is  gone ;  snatched  from  us,  carried  off  by 
ruffians  !"  "  How,  madam/'  cried  my  fellow-priso- 
ner, "  Miss  Sophia  carried  off  by  villians !  sure  it 
cannot  be." 

She  could  only  answer  with  a  fixed  look  and  a 
flood  of  tears.  But  one  of  the  prisoner's  wives  who 
was  present,  and  came  in  with  her,  gave  us  a  more 
distinct  account :  she  informed  us,  that  as  my  wife, 
my  daughter,  and  herself  were  taking  a  walk  to- 
gether on  the  great  rode,  a  little  way  out  of  the 
village,  a  post-chaise  and  a  pair  drove  up  to  them, 
and  instantly  stopped.  Upon  which  a  well-dressed 
man,  but  not  Mr.  Thornhill,  stepping  out,  clasped 
my  daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing  her  in, 
bid  the  postillion  drive  on,  so  that  they  were  out 
of  sight  in  a  moment. 

"  Now,"  cried  I,  "  the  sum  of  my  miseries  is  made 
up,  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  any  thing  on  earth  to 
give  me  another  pang.  What !  not  one  left !  not 
to  leave  me  one  ! — The  monster  ! — The  child  that 
was  next  my  heart !  she  had  the  beauty  of  an 
angel,  and  almost  the  wisdom  of  an  angel.  But 
support  that  woman,  nor  let  her  fall. — Not  tc 
leave  me  one !" 

"  Alas !  my  husband,"  said  my  wife,  "  you  seem 
to  want  comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses 
are  great ;  but  I  could  bear  this  and  more,  if  I  saw 
you  but  easy.  They  may  take  away  my  children 
and  all  the  world,  if  they  leave  me  but  you." 


222 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavoured  to  mode- 
rate her  grief ;  he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he  hoped 
that  we  might  still  have  reason  to  be  thankful. — 
"  My  child/'  cried  I,  "  look  round  the  world,  and 
see  if  there  be  any  happiness  left  me  now.  Is  not 
every  ray  of  comfort  shut  out,  while  all  our  bright 
prospects  only  lie  beyond  the  grave  ?" — "  My  dear 
father,"  returned  he,  "I  hope  there  is  still  something 
that  will  give  you  an  interval  of  satisfaction ;  for 
I  have  a  letter  from  my  brother  George." — "  What 
of  him,  child  ?"  interrupted  I,  "  does  he  know  our 
misery  ?  I  hope  my  boy  is  exempt  from  any  part 
of  what  his  wretched  family  suffers  ?" — "  Yes,  sir," 
returned  he,  "  he  is  perfectly  gay,  cheerful,  and 
happy.  His  letter  brings  nothing  but  good  news ; 
he  is  the  favourite  of  his  colonel,  who  promises  to 
procure  him  the  very  next  lieutenancy  that  becomes 
vacant." 

"  And  are  you  sure  of  all  this  ?"  cried  my  wife  : 
"  are  you  sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my 
boy  ?" — "  Nothing  indeed,  madam,"  returned  my 
son ;  "you  shall  see  the  letter,  which  will  give  you 
the  highest  pleasure ;  and  if  any  thing  can  procure 
you  comfort,  I  am  sure  that  will." — "  But  are  you 
sure,"  still  repeated  she,  "  that  the  letter  is  from 
himself,  and  that  he  is  really  so  happy?" — "  Yes, 
madam,"  replied  he,  "it  is  certainly  his.  and  he 
will  one  day  be  the  credit  and  support  of  air  fam- 
ily."— "  Then  I  thank  Providence,"  cried  si  *  ('that 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


223 


my  last  letter  to  him  has  miscarried. — Yes,  my 
dear/'  continued  she,  turning  to  me,  "  I  will  now 
confess,  that  though  the  hand  of  Heaven  is  sore 
upon  us  in  other  instances,  it  has  been  favourable 
here.  By  the  last  letter  I  wrote  my  son,  which 
was  in  the  bitterness  of  anger,  I  desired  him,  upon 
his  mother's  blessing,  and  if  he  had  the  heart  of  a 
man,  to  see  justice  done  his  father  and  sister,  and 
avenge  our  cause.  But  thanks  be  to  Him  that  di- 
rects all  things,  it  has  miscarried,  and  I  am  at  rest." 
u  Woman,"  cried  I,  "  thou  hast  done  very  ill,  and 
at  another  time  my  reproaches  might  have  been 
more  severe.  Oh  !  what  a  temendous  gulf  hast 
thou  escaped,  that  would  have  buried  both  thee  and 
him  in  endless  ruin.  Providence  indeed  has  here 
been  kinder  to  us  than  we  to  ourselves.  It  has  re 
served  that  son  to  be  the  father  and  protector  of 
my  children  when  I  shall  be  away.  How  unjustly 
did  I  complain  of  being  stripped  of  every  comfort, 
when  still  I  hear  that  he  is  happy,  and  insensible 
of  our  afflictions ;  still  kept  in  reserve  to  support 
his  widowed  mother,  and  to  protect  his  brothers 
and  sisters.  But  what  sisters  has  he  left  ?  he  has 
no  sisters  now ;  they  are  all  gone,  robbed  from  me, 
and  I  am  undone." — "  Father,"  interrupted  my  son, 
"  I  beg  you  will  give  me  leave  to  read  this  letter, 
I  know  it  will  please  you."  Upon  wbich,  with  my 
permission,  he  read  as  follows  : — 


224 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


"Honoured  Sir, 

I  hate  called  off  my  imagination  a  few  moments 
from  the  pleasures  that  surround  me,  to  fix  it  upon 
objects  that  are  still  more  pleasing,  the  dear  little 
fire-side  at  home.  My  fancy  draws  that  harmless 
group  listening  to  every  line  of  this  with  great 
composure.  I  view  those  faces  with  delight  which 
never  felt  the  deforming  hand  of  ambition  or  dis- 
tress !  But  whatever  your  happiness  may  be  at 
home,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  some  addition  to  it  to 
hear,  that  I  am  perfectly  pleased  with  my  situation, 
and  every  way  happy  here. 

"  Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  to 
leave  the  kingdom  :  the  colonel,  who  professes  him- 
self my  friend,  takes  me  with  him  to  all  companies 
where  he  is  acquainted,  and  after  my  first  visit  1 
generally  find  myself  received  with  increased  respect 
upon  repeating  it.    I  danced  last  night  with  lady 

G  ,  and  could  I  forget  you  know  whom,  I  might 

be  perhaps  successful.  But  it  is  my  fate  still  to 
remember  others,  while  I  am  myself  forgotten  by 
most  of  my  absent  friends  ;  and  in  this  number,  I 
fear,  sir,  that  I  must  consider  you  ;  for  I  have  long 
expected  the  pleasure  of  a  letter  from  home,  to  no 
purpose.  Olivia  and  Sophia  too  promised  to  write, 
but  seem  to  have  forgotten  me.  Tell  them  they  are 
two  arrant  little  baggages,  and  that  I  am  this  mo- 
ment in  a  most  violent  passion  with  them :  yet 
still  T  know  not  how,  though  I  want  to  bluster  a 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


225 


little,  my  heart  is  respondent  only  to  softer  emo- 
tions. Then  tell  them,  sir,  that  after  all  I  love 
them  affectionately,  and  be  assured  of  my  ever 
remaining  Your  dutiful  son." 

"In  all  our  miseries,"  cried  I,  "what  thanks 
have  we  not  to  return,  that  one  at  least  of  our  fam- 
ily is  exempted  from  what  we  suffer.  Heaven  be 
his  guard,  and  keep  my  boy  thus  happy,  to  be  the 
supporter  of  his  widowed  mother,  and  the  father 
of  these  two  babes,  which  is  all  the  patrimony  I 
can  now  bequeath  him.  May  he  keep  their  inno- 
cence from  the  temptations  of  want,  and  be  their 
conductor  in  the  paths  of  honour !"  I  had  scarcely 
said  these  words,  when  a  noise  like  that  of  a  tumult 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  prison  below;  it  died 
away  soon  after,  and  a  clanking  of  fetters  was  heard 
along  the  passage  that  led  to  my  apartment.  The 
keeper  of  the  prison  entered,  holding  a  man  all 
bloody,  wounded,  and  fettered  with  the  heaviest 
irons.  I  looked  with  compassion  on  the  wretch  as 
he  approrched  me,  but  with  horror  when  I  found 
it  was  my  own  son. — "  My  George  !  my  George ! 
and  do  I  behold  thee  thus?  wounded — fettered  !  Is 
this  thy  happiness  ?  is  this  the  manner  you  return 
to  me  ?  0  that  this  sight  could  break  my  heart 
at  once,  and  let  me  die !" 

"  Where,  sir,  is  your  fortitude  ?"  returned  my  son 
with  an  intrepid  voice.  "  I  must  suffer;  my  life  is 
forfeited,  and  let  them  take  it." 


226 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I  tried  to  restrain  my  passions  for  a  few  minutes 
in  silence,  but  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with 
the  effort, — u0  my  boy,  my  heart  weeps  to  behold 
thee  thus ;  and  I  cannot,  cannot  help  it.  In  the 
moment  that  I  thought  thee  blessed,  and  prayed 
for  thy  safety,  to  behold  thee  thus  again  !  Chained, 
wounded !  And  yet  the  death  of  the  youthful  is 
happy.  But  I  am  old,  a  very  old  man,  and  have 
lived  to  see  this  day  !  To  see  my  children  all  un- 
timely falling  about  me,  while  I  continue  a  wretched 
survivor  in  the  midst  of  ruin  !  May  all  the  curses 
that  ever  sunk  a  soul  fall  heavy  upon  the  murderer 
of  my  children  !    May  he  live,  like  me,  to  see — " 

"  Hold,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  or  I  shall  blush 
for  thee.  How,  sir,  forgetful  of  your  age,  your 
holy  calling,  thus  to  arrogate  the  justice  of  Heaven, 
and  fling  those  curses  upward  that  must  soon  de- 
scend to  crush  thy  own  gray  head  with  destruction  ! 
No,  sir,  let  it  be  your  care  now  to  fit  me  for  that 
vile  death  I  must  shortly  suffer;  to  arm  me  with 
hope  and  resolution ;  to  give  me  courage  to  drink 
of  that  bitterness  which  must  shortly  be  my 
portion." 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  die  :  I  am  sure  no  of- 
fence of  thine  can  deserve  so  vile  a  punishment. 
My  George  could  never  be  guilty  of  any  crime  to 
make  his  ancestors  ashamed  of  him." 

"  Mine,  sir,"  returned  my  son,  "  is,  I  fear,  an  un- 
pardonable one.    When  I  received  my  mcther's 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


227 


letter  from  home,  I  immediately  came  down,  deter- 
mined to  punish  the  betrayer  of  our  honour,  and 
sent  him  an  order  to  meet  me,  which  he  answered, 
not  in  person,  but  by  despatching  four  of  his  do- 
mestics to  seize  me.  I  wounded  one  who  first  as- 
saulted me,  and  I  fear  desperately  ;  but  the  rest 
made  me  their  prisoner.  The  coward  is  determined 
to  put  the  law  in  execution  against  me;  the  proofs 
are  undeniable  :  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and  as  I 
am  the  first  transgressor  upon  the  statute,  I  see  no 
hopes  of  pardon.  But  you  have  often  charmed  me 
with  your  lessons  of  fortitude  ;  let  me  now,  sir,  find 
them  in  your  example." 

"  And,  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I  am  now 
raised  above  this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it  can 
produce.  From  this  moment  I  break  from  my 
heart  all  the  ties  that  held  it  down  to  earth,  and 
will  prepare  to  fit  us  both  for  eternity.  Yes,  my 
son,  I  will  point  out  the  way,  and  my  soul  shall 
guide  yours  in  the  ascent,  for  we  will  take  our  flight 
together.  I  now  see  and  am  convinced  you  can 
expect  no  pardon  here ;  and  I  can  only  exhort  you 
to  seek  it  at  that  greatest  tribunal  where  we  both 
shall  shortly  answer.  But  let  us  not  be  niggardly 
in  our  exhortation,  but  let  ail  our  fellow-prisoners 
have  a  share.  Good  gaoler,  let  them  be  permitted 
to  stand  here  while  I  attempt  to  improve  them." — 
Thus  saying,  I  made  an  effort  to  rise  from  my  straw, 
but  wanted  strength,  and  was  able  only  to  recline 

15 


228 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


against  the  wall.  The  prisoners  assembled  them- 
selves according  to  my  directions,  for  they  loved  to 
hear  my  counsel ;  my  son  and  his  mother  supported 
me  on  either  side ;  I  looked  and  saw  that  none 
were  wanting,  and  then  addressed  them  with  the 
following  exhortation. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  equal  dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated  with  regard  to  the 
happy  and  the  miserable  here  below. — That  from  the  nature  of 
pleasure  and  pain,  the  wretched  must  be  repaid  the  balance  of 
their  sufferings  in  the  life  hereafter. 

My  friends,  my  children,  and  my  fellow-sufferers, 
when  I  reflect  on  the  distribution  of  good  and  evil 
here  below,  I  find  that  much  has  been  given  man 
to  enjoy,  yet  still  more  to  suffer.  Though  we 
should  examine  the  whole  world,  we  shall  not  find 
one  man  so  happy  as  to  have  nothing  left  to  wish 
for;  but  we  daily  see  thousands,  who,  by  suicide, 
show  us  they  have  nothing  left  to  hope.  In  this 
life,  then,  it  appears  that  we  cannot  be  entirely 
blessed,  but  yet  we  may  be  completely  miserable. 

Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain  ;  why  our  wretch- 
edness should  be  requisite  in  the  formation  of  uni- 
versal felicity ;  why,  when  all  other  systems  are 
made  perfect  by  the  perfection  of  their  subordinate 
parts,  the  great  system  should  require  for  its  per- 
fection parts  that  are  not  only  subordinate  to  others, 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


229 


but  imperfect  in  themselves ;  these  are  questions 
that  never  can  be  explained,  and  might  be  useless 
if  known.  On  this  subject,  Providence  has  thought 
fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied  with  granting  us 
motives  to  consolation. 

In  this  situation  man  has  called  in  the  friendly 
assistance  of  philosophy,  and  Heaven,  seeing  the 
incapacity  of  that  to  console  him,  has  given  him 
the  aid  of  religion.  The  consolations  of  philoso- 
phy are  very  amusing,  but  often  fallacious.  It  tells 
us  that  life  is  filled  with  comforts,  if  we  will  but 
enjoy  them :  and  on  the  other  hand,  that  though 
we  unavoidably  have  miseries  here,  life  is  short, 
and  they  will  soon  be  over.  Thus  do  these  conso- 
lations destroy  each  other :  for,  if  life  is  a  place  of 
comfort  its  shortness  must  be  misery,  and  if  it  be 
long,  our  griefs  are  protracted.  Thus  philosophy 
is  weak;  but  religion  comforts  in  a  higher  strain. 
Man  is  here,  it  tells  us,  fitting  up  his  mind,  and 
preparing  it  for  another  abode.  When  the  good 
man  leaves  the  body  and  is  all  a  glorious  mind, 
he  will  find  he  has  been  making  himself  a  heaven 
of  happiness  here  :  while  the  wretch  that  has  been 
maimed  and  contaminated  by  his  vices,  shrinks 
from  his  body  with  terror^  and  finds  that  he  has 
anticipated  the  vengeance  of  Heaven.  To  religion 
then  we  must  hold  in  every  circumstance  of  life  for 
our  truest  comfort;  for  if  already  we  are  happy,  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  think  we  can  make  that  happiness 


230 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


unending ;  and  if  we  are  miserable,  it  is  very  eon 
soling  to  think  that  there  is  a  place  of  rest.  Thus, 
to  the  fortunate,  religion  holds  out  a  continuance 
of  bliss ;  to  the  wretched  a  change  from  pain. 

But  though  religion  is  very  kind  to  all  men,  it 
has  promised  peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy  :  the 
sick,  the  naked,  the  houseless,  the  heavy-laden,  and 
the  prisoner,  have  ever  most  frequent  promises 
in  our  sacred  law.  The  author  of  our  religion 
every  where  professes  himself  the  wretch's  friend, 
and,  unlike  the  false  ones  of  this  world,  bestows  all 
his  caresses  upon  the  forlorn.  The  unthinking 
have  censured  this  as  partiality,  as  a  preference 
without  merit  to  deserve  it.  But  they  never  reflect, 
that  it  is  not  in  the  power  even  of  Heaven  itself 
to  make  the  offer  of  unceasing  felicity  as  great  a 
gift  to  the  happy  as  to  the  miserable.  To  the  first, 
eternity  is  but  a  single  blessing,  since  at  most  it 
but  increases  what  they  already  possess.  To  the 
latter,  it  is  but  a  double  advantage ;  for  it  diminish- 
es their  pain  here,  and  rewards  them  with  heavenly 
bliss  hereafter. 

But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder  to 
the  poor  than  the  rich ;  for  as  it  thus  makes  the 
life  after  death  more  desirable,  so  it  smooths  the 
passage  there.  The  wretched  have  had  a  long  fa- 
miliarity with  every  face  of  terror.  The  man  of 
sorrows  lays  himself  quietly  down,  without  posses 
eions  to  regret,  and  but  few  ties  to  stop  his  depar 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


231 


ture :  he  feels  only  nature's  pang  in  the  final 
separation,  and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he  has 
often  fainted  under  before ;  for  after  a  certain 
degree  of  pain,  every  new  breach  that  death  opens 
in  the  constitution,  nature  kindly  covers  with  in- 
sensibility. 

Thus  Providence  has  given  the  wretched  two 
advantages  over  the  happy  in  this  life — greater  fe- 
licity in  dying,  and  in  heaven  all  that  superiority 
of  pleasure  which  arises  from  contrasted  enjoyment. 
And  this  superiority,  my  friends,  is  no  small  ad- 
vantage, and  seems  to  be  one  of  the  pleasures  of 
the  poor  man  in  the  parable ;  for  though  he  was 
already  in  Heaven,  and  felt  all  the  raptures  it  could 
give,  yet  it  was  mentioned  as  an  addition  to  his 
happiness,  that  he  had  once  been  wretched,  and 
now  was  comforted ;  that  he  had  known  what  it 
was  to  be  miserable,  and  now  felt  what  it  was  to 
be  happy. 

Thus,  my  friends,  you  see  religion  does  what 
philosophy  could  never  do :  it  shows  the  equal 
dealings  of  Heaven  to  the  happy  and  the  unhappy, 
and  levels  all  human  enjoyments  to  nearly  the 
same  standard.  It  gives  to  both  rich  and  poor  the 
same  happiness  hereafter,  and  equal  hopes  to  aspire 
after  it ;  but  if  the  rich  have  the  advantage  of  en- 
joying pleasure  here,  the  poor  have  the  endless 
satisfaction  of  knowing  what  it  was  once  to  be 
miserable,  when  crowned  with  endless  felicity  here- 


232 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


aftet ;  and  even  though  this  should  be  called  a 
small  advantage,  yet  being  an  eternal  one,  it  must 
make  up  by  duration  what  the  temporal  happiness 
of  the  great  may  have  exceeded  by  intenseness. 

These  are,  therefore,  the  consolations  which  the 
wretched  have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which 
they  are  above  the  rest  of  mankind;  in  other  re- 
spects, they  are  below  them.  They  who  would 
know  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  must  see  life  and 
endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal  advantages 
they  enjoy,  is  only  repeating  what  none  either  be- 
lieve or  practice.  The  men  who  have  the  necessa- 
ries of  living  are  not  poor,  and  they  who  want 
them  must  be  miserable.  Yes,  my  friends,  we  must 
be  miserable.  No  vain  efforts  of  a  refined  imagi- 
nation can  soothe  the  wants  of  nature,  can  give 
elastic  sweetness  to  the  dark  vapour  of  a  dungeon, 
or  ease  the  throbbings  of  a  broken  heart.  Let  the 
philosopher  from  his  couch  of  softness  tell  us  that 
we  can  resist  all  these  :  alas  !  the  effort  by  which 
we  resist  them  is  still  the  greatest  pain.  Death  is 
slight,  and  any  man  may  sustain  it ;  but  torments 
are  dreadful,  and  these  no  man  can  endure. 

To  us  then,  my  friends,  the  promises  of  happi- 
ness in  heaven  should  be  peculiarly  dear  ;  for  if  out 
reward  be  in  this  life  alone,  we  are  then  indeed  of 
all  men  the  most  miserable.  When  I  look  round 
these  gloomy  walls,  made  to  terrify  as  well  as  to 
confine  us ;  this  light,  that  only  serves  to  show  the 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


233 


horrors  of  the  place ;  those  shackles,  that  tyranny 
has  imposed  or  crime  made  necessary ;  when  I  sur- 
vey these  emaciated  looks,  and  hear  those  groans, 
0 !  my  friends,  what  a  glorious  exchange  would 
heaven  be  for  these.  To  fly  through  regions  un- 
confined  as  air,  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal 
bliss,  to  carol  over  endless  hymns  of  praise,  to 
have  no  master  to  threaten  or  insult  us,  but  the 
form  of  Goodness  himself  for  ever  in  our  eyes! 
when  I  think  of  these  things,  Death  becomes  the 
messenger  of  very  glad  tidings ;  when  I  think  of 
these  things,  his  sharpest  arrow  becomes  the  staff 
of  my  support ;  when  I  think  of  these  things, 
what  is  there  in  life  worth  having  ?  when  I  think 
of  these  things,  what  is  there  that  should  not  be 
spurned  away  ?  Kings  in  their  palaces  should  groan 
for  such  advantages ;  but  we,  humbled  as  we  are, 
should  yearn  for  them. 

And  shall  these  things  be  ours  ?  Ours  they  will 
certainly  be,  if  we  but  try  for  them ;  and  what  is 
a  comfort,  we  are  shut  out  from  many  temptations 
that  would  retard  our  pursuit.  Only  let  us  try  for 
them,  and  they  will  certainly  be  ours ;  and  what 
is  still  a  comfort,  shortly  too;  for  if  we  look  back 
on  a  past  life,  it  appears  but  a  very  short  span, 
and  whatever  we  may  think  of  the  rest  of  life,  it 
will  yet  be  found  of  less  duration ;  as  we  grow 
older,  the  days  seem  to  grow  shorter,  and  our  inti- 
macy with  time  ever  lessens  the  perception  of  his 


234 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


stay.  Then  let  us  take  comfort  now,  for  we  shall 
soon  be  at  our  journey's  end;  we  shall  soon  lay 
down  the  heavy  burden  laid  by  Heaven  upon  us ; 
and  though  Death,  the  only  friend  of  the  wretched, 
for  a  little  while  mocks  the  weary  traveller  with 
the  view,  and  like  his  horizon  still  flies  before  him, 
yet  the  time  will  certainly  and  shortly  come,  when 
we  shall  cease  from  our  toil ;  when  the  luxurious 
great  ones  of  the  world  shall  no  more  tread  us  to 
the  earth ;  when  we  shall  think  with  pleasure  of 
our  sufferings  below ;  when  we  shall  be  surrounded 
with  all  our  friends,  or  such  as  deserved  our  friend- 
ship; when  our  bliss  shall  be  unutterable,  and  still, 
to  crown  all,  unending. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Happier  prospects  begin  to  appear. — Let  us  be  inflexible,  and  fortune 
will  at  last  change  in  our  favour. 

When  I  had  thus  finished,  and  my  audience  was 
retired,  the  gaoler,  who  was  one  of  the  most  hu- 
mane of  his  profession,  hoped  I  would  not  be  dis- 
pleased, as  what  he  did  was  but  his  duty,  observ- 
ing, that  he  must  be  obliged  to  remove  my  son 
into  a  stronger  cell,  but  that  he  should  be  permitted 
to  revisit  me  every  morning.  I  thanked  him  for 
his  clemency,  and  grasping  my  boy's  hand,  bade 
him  farewell,  and  be  mindful  of  the  great  duty 
that  was  before  him. 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


235 


I  again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my 
little  ones  sat  by  my  bedside  reading,  when  Mr. 
Jenkinson  entering,  informed  me  that  there  was 
news  of  my  daughter ;  for  that  she  was  seen  by  a 
person  about  two  hours  before  in  a  strange  gentle- 
man's company,  and  that  they  had  stopped  at  a 
neighbouring  village  for  refreshment,  and  seemed 
as  if  returning  to  town.  He  had  scarcely  delivered 
this  news  when  the  gaoler  came  with  looks  of  haste 
and  pleasure  to  inform  me,  that  my  daughter  was 
found.  Moses  came  running  in  a  moment  after, 
crying  out  that  his  sister  Sophy  was  below,  and 
coming  up  with  our  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  delivered  this  news,  my  dearest  girl 
entered,  and  with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure, 
ran  to  kiss  me  in  a  transport  of  affection.  Her 
mother's  tears  and  silence  also  showed  her  plea- 
sure— "  Here,  papa,"  cried  the  charming  girl,  "  here 
is  the  brave  man  to  whom  I  owe  my  delivery ;  to 
this  gentleman's  intrepidity  I  am  indebted  for  my 
happiness  and  safety  "  A  kiss  from  Mr.  Bur- 
chell, whose  pleasure  seemed  even  greater  than 
hers,  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Burchell,"  cried  I,  "  this  is  but  a 
wretched  habitation  you  now  find  us  in  ;  and  we 
are  now  very  different  from  what  you  last  saw  us. 
You  were  ever  our  friend  :  we  have  long  discovered 
our  errors  with  regard  to  you,  and  repent  of  our 
ingratitude.  After  the  vile  usage  you  then  received 


236 


YICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


at  my  hands,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  behold  your 
face ;  yet  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  as  I  was  de- 
ceived by  a  base,  ungenerous  wretch,  who  under 
the  mask  of  friendship  has  undone  me." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  replied  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that  I 
should  forgive  you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  re- 
sentment. I  partly  saw  your  delusion  then,  and 
as  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  restrain,  I  could  only 
pity  it." 

"  It  was  ever  my  conjecture,"  cried  I,  "that  your 
mind  was  noble,  but  now  I  find  it  so.  But  tell  me, 
my  dear  child,  how  thou  hast  been  relieved,  or  who 
the  ruffians  were  who  carried  thee  away." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  as  to  the  villain  who 
carried  me  off,  I  am  yet  ignorant.  For,  as  my 
mamma  and  I  were  walking  out,  he  came  up  be- 
hind us,  and  almost  bciv  e  I  could  call  for  help, 
forced  me  into  the  post-chaise,  and  in  an  instant 
the  horses  drove  away.  I  met  several  on  the  road 
to  whom  I  cried  out  for  assistance  but  they  disre- 
garded my  entreaties.  In  the  meantime  the  ruf- 
fian himself  used  every  art  to  hinder  me  from  cry- 
ing out :  he  flattered  and  threatened  by  turns,  and 
swore  that  if  I  continued  but  silent  he  intended  no 
harm.  In  the  meantime  I  had  broken  the  canvas 
that  he  had  drawn  up,  and  whom  should  I  perceive 
at  some  distance  but  your  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell, 
walking  along  with  his  usual  swiftness,  with  the 
great  stick  for  which  wo  so  much  used  to  ridicule 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


237 


him.  As  soon  as  we  came  within  hearing,  I  called 
out  to  him  by  name,  and  entreated  his  help.  I  re- 
peated my  exclamations  several  times,  upon  which, 
with  a  very  loud  voice,  he  bid  the  postillion  stop ; 
but  the  boy  took  no  notice,  but  drove  on  with  still 
greater  speed.  I  now  thought  he  could  never  over- 
take us,  when,  in  less  than  a  minute,  I  saw  Mr. 
Burchell  come  running  up  by  the  side  of  the 
horses,  and  with  one  blow  knock  the  postillion  to 
the  ground.  The  horses,  when  he  was  fallen,  soon 
stopped  of  themselves,  and  the  ruffian  stepping  out, 
with  oaths  and  menaces  drew  his  sword,  and  or- 
dered him  at  his  peril  to  retire ;  but  Mr.  Burchell 
running  up  shivered  his  sword  to  pieces,  and  then 
pursued  him  for  near  a  quarter  of  a  mile ;  but  he 
made  his  escape.  I  was  at  this  time  come  out  my- 
self, willing  to  assist  my  deliverer;  but  he  soon 
returned  to  me  in  triumph.  The  postillion,  who 
was  recovered,  was  going  to  make  his  escape  too ; 
but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him  at  his  peril  to  mount 
again  and  drive  back  to  town.  Finding  it  impossi- 
ble to  resist  he  reluctantly  complied,  though  the 
wound  he  had  received  seemed  to  me  at  least  to  be 
dangerous.  He  continued  to  complain  of  the  pain 
as  we  drove  along,  so  that  he  at  last  excited  Mr. 
Burcheirs  compassion,  who  at  my  request  ex 
changed  him  for  another,  at  an  inn  where  we 
called  on  our  return." 

"Welcome,  then,"  cried  I,  "my  child!  and  thou. 


238 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


her  gallant  deliverer,  a  thousand  welcomes !  Though 
our  cheer  is  but  wretched,  yet  our  hearts  are  ready 
to  receive  you.  And  now,  Mr.  Burchell,  as  you 
have  delivered  my  girl,  if  you  think  she  is  a  re- 
compense, she  is  yours ;  if  you  can  stoop  to  an 
alliance  with  a  family  so  poor  as  mine,  take  her; 
obtain  her  consent,  as  I  know  you  have  her  heart, 
and  you  have  mine.  And  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that 
I  give  you  no  small  treasure :  she  has  been  cele- 
brated for  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  that  is  not  my 
meaning ;  I  give  you  up  a  treasure  in  her  mind." 

"  But  I  suppose,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that 
you  are  apprised  of  my  circumstances,  and  of  my 
incapacity  to  support  her  as  she  deserves." 

"  If  your  present  objection,"  replied  I,  "be  meant 
as  an  evasion  of  my  offer,  I  desist :  but  I  know  no 
man  so  worthy  to  deserve  her  as  you  ;  and  if  I  could 
give  her  thousands,  and  thousands  sought  her  from 
me,  yet  my  honest,  brave  Burchell  should  be  my 
dearest  choice." 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a 
mortifying  refusal,  and  without  the  least  reply  to 
my  offer,  he  demanded  if  we  could  not  be  furnished 
with  refreshments  from  the  next  inn ;  to  which 
being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  ordered  them 
to  send  in  the  best  dinner  that  could  be  provided 
upon  such  short  notice.  He  bespoke  also  a  dozen 
of  their  best  wine,  and  some  cordials  for  me  :  add- 
ing with  a  smile,  that  he  would  stretch  a  little  for 


VICAK    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


239 


once,  and  though  in  a  prison,  asserted  he  was  never 
better  disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter  soon  made 
his  appearance  with  preparations  for  dinner ;  a  table 
was  lent  us  by  the  gaoler,  who  seemed  remarkably 
assiduous ;  the  wine  was  disposed  in  order,  and  two 
very  well-dressed  dishes  were  brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor 
brothers  melancholy  situation,  and  we  all  seemed 
unwilling  to  damp  her  cheerfulness  by  the  relation. 
But  it  was  in  vain  that  I  attempted  to  appear 
cheerful,  the  circumstances  of  my  unfortunate  son 
broke  through  all  efforts  to  dissemble;  so  that  I 
was  at  last  obliged  to  damp  our  mirth,  by  relating 
his  misfortunes,  and  wishing  that  he  might  be  per- 
mitted to  share  with  us  in  this  little  interval  of 
satisfaction.  After  my  guests  were  recovered  from 
the  consternation  my  account  had  produced,  I  re- 
quested also  that  Mr.  Jenkinson,  a  fellow-prisoner, 
might  be  admitted,  and  the  gaoler  granted  my  re- 
quest with  an  air  of  unusual  submission.  The 
clanking  of  my  son's  irons  were  no  sooner  heard 
along  the  passage,  than  his  sister  ran  impatiently 
to  meet  him;  while  Mr.  Burchell  in  the  meantime 
asked  me,  if  my  son's  name  was  George ;  to  which 
replying  in  the  affirmative,  he  still  continued  silent. 
As  soon  as  my  boy  entered  the  room,  I  could  per- 
ceive he  regarded  Mr.  Burchell  with  a  look  of  as- 
tonishment and  reverence.  "  Come  on,"  cried  I, 
u  my  son ;  though  we  are  fallen  very  low,  yet  Pro- 


240 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


vidence  has  been  pleased  to  grant  us  some  small 
■relaxation  from  pain.  Thy  sister  is  restored  to  us, 
and  there  is  her  deliverer  :  to  that  brave  man  it  is 
that  I  am  indebted  for  yet  having  a  daughter ;  give 
him,  my  boy,  the  hand  of  friendship;  he  deserves 
our  warmest  gratitude." 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what 
I  said,  and  still  continued  fixed  at  respectful  dis- 
tance.— "  My  dear  brother/'  cried  his  sister,  "  why 
don't  you  thank  my  good  deliverer  ?  the  brave 
should  ever  love  each  other." 

He  still  continued  in  silence  and  astonishment 
till  our  guest  at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  known, 
and,  assuming  all  his  native  dignity,  desired  my 
son  to  come  forward.  Never  before  had  I  seen  any 
thing  so  truly  majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed  upon 
this  occasion.  The  greatest  object  in  the  universe, 
says  a  certain  philosopher,  is  a  good  man  struggling 
with  adversity ;  yet  there  is  still  a  greater,  which 
is  the  good  man  that  comes  to  relieve  it.  After  he 
had  regarded  my  son  for  some  time  with  a  superior 
air,  "  I  again  find,"  said  he,  "  unthinking  boy,  that 
the  same  crime" — But  here  he  was  interrupted  by 
one  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came  to  inform  us 
that  a  person  of  distinction,  who  had  driven  into 
town  with  a  chariot  and  several  attendants,  sent 
his  respects  to  the  gentleman  that  was  with  us,  and 
begged  to  know  when  he  should  think  proper  to  be 
waited  upon. — "  Bid  the  fellow  wait,"  cried  our 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


241 


guest,  "  till  I  shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him 
and  then  turning  to  my  son,  "  I  again  find,  sir/' 
proceeded  he,  "  that  you  are  guilty  of  the  same 
offence,  for  which  you  once  had  my  reproof,  and 
for  which  the  law  is  now  preparing  its  jus  test  pun- 
ishments. You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  a  contempt 
for  your  own  life  gives  you  a  right  to  take  that  of 
another :  but  where,  sir,  is  the  difference  between 
a  duellist  who  hazards  a  life  of  no  value,  and  the 
murderer  who  acts  with  greater  security  ?  Is  it 
any  diminution  of  the  gamester  s  fraud,  when  he 
alleges  that  he  has  staked  a  counter  ?" 

"  Alas,  sir,"  cried  I,  "  whoever  you  are,  pity  the 
poor  misguided  creature  ;  for  what  he  has  done  was 
in  obedience  to  a  deluded  mother,  who,  in  the  bit- 
terness of  her  resentment,  required  him,  upon  her 
blessing,  to  avenge  her  quarrel.  Here,  sir,  is  the 
letter,  which  will  serve  to  convince  you  of  her  im- 
prudence, and  diminish  his  guilt." 

He  took  the  letter  and  hastily  read  it  over. 
"  This,"  says  he,  "  though  not  a  perfect  excuse,  is 
such  a  palliation  of  his  fault  as  induces  me  to  for- 
give him.  And,  now,  sir,"  continued  he,  kindly 
taking  my  son  by  the  hand,  "  I  see  you  are  sur- 
prised at  finding  me  here ;  but  I  have  often  visited 
prisons  upon  occasions  less  interesting.  I  am  now 
come  to  see  justice  done  a  worthy  man,  for  whom 
I  have  the  most  sincere  esteem.  I  have  long  been 
a  disguised  spectator  of  thy  father's  benevolence. 


242  VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 

I  have  at  bis  little  dwelling  enjoyed  respect  uncon- 
taminated  by  flattery;  and  have  received  that 
happiness  that  courts  could  not  give  from  the  amu- 
sing simplicity  round  his  fire-side.  My  nephew 
has  been  apprised  of  my  intentions  of  coming  here, 
and  I  find  is  arrived.  It  would  be  wronging  him 
and  you  to  condemn  him  without  an  examination : 
if  there  be  injury,  there  shall  be  redress ;  and  this 
I  may  say,  without  boasting,  that  none  have  ever 
taxed  the  injustice  of  Sir  William  Thornhill." 

We  now  found  the  personage  whom  we  had  so 
long  entertained  as  a  harmless  amusing  companion, 
was  no  other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  William 
Thornhill,  to  whose  virtues  and  singularities 
scarcely  any  were  strangers.  The  poor  Mr.  Bur- 
chell  was  in  reality  a  man  of  large  fortune  and 
great  interest,  to  whom  senates  listened  with  ap- 
plause, and  whom  party  heard  with  conviction ; 
who  was  the  friend  of  his  country,  but  loyal  to  his 
king.  My  poor  wife,  recalling  her  former  familiari* 
ty,  seemed  to  shrink  with  apprehension;  but  So- 
phia, who  a  few  moments  before  thought  him  her 
own,  now  perceiving  the  immense  distance  to  which 
he  was  removed  by  fortune,  was  unable  to  conceal 
her  tears. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  cried  my  wife  with  a  piteous  aspect, 
"how  is  it  possible  that  I  can  ever  have  your  for- 
giveness ?  The  slights  you  received  from  me  the 
last  time  I  had  the  honour  of  seeing  you  at  our 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


243 


house,  and  the  jokes  which  I  audaciously  threw 
out — these,  sir,  I  fear,  can  never  be  forgiven. " 

"  My  dear  good  lady,"  returned  he  with  a  smile, 
"if  you  had  your  joke,  I  had  my  answer  :  I'll  leave 
it  to  all  the  company  if  mine  were  not  as  good  as 
yours.  To  say  the  truth,  I  know  nobody  whom  I 
am  disposed  to  be  angry  with  at  present,  but  the 
fellow  who  so  frighted  my  little  girl  here.  I  had 
not  even  time  to  examine  the  rascal's  person  so  as 
to  describe  him  in  an  advertisement.  Can  you  tell 
me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  whether  you  should  know  him 
again  I 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "1  can't  be  positive; 
yet  now  I  recollect  he  had  a  large  mark  over  one 
of  his  eyebrows."— "  I  ask  pardon,  madam,"  inter- 
rupted Jenkinson,  who  was  by,  "  be  so  good  as  to 
inform  me  if  the  fellow  wore  his  own  red  hair  ?" — 
"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  cried  Sophia.  "  And  did  your 
honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William,  "  ob- 
serve the  length  of  his  legs  ?" — "  I  can't  be  sure  of 
their  length,"  cried  the  baronet,  "  but  I  am  con- 
vinced of  their  swiftness ;  for  he  outran  me,  which 
is  what  I  thought  few  men  in  the  kingdom  could 
have  done." — "  Please  your  honour,"  cried  Jenkin- 
son, "  I  know  the  man  :  it  is  certainly  the  same  ; 
the  best  runner  in  England ;  he  has  beaten  Pinwire 
of  Newcastle;  Timothy  Baxter  is  his  name.  I 
know  him  perfectly,  and  the  very  place  of  his  re- 
treat at  this  moment.    If  your  honour  will  bid  Mr, 

16 


244 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


Gaoler  let  two  of  his  men  go  witn  me,  I'll  engage 
to  produce  him  to  you  in  an  hour  at  furthest." 
Upon  this  the  gaoler  was  called,  who  instantly  ap- 
pearing, Sir  William  demanded  if  he  knew  him. 
"  Yes,  please  your  honour,"  replied  the  gaoler,  "  I 
know  Sir  William  Thornhill  well,  and  every  body 
that  knows  any  thing  of  him  will  desire  to  know 
more  of  him." — "  Well,  then,"  said  the  baronet, 
"  my  request  is,  that  you  permit  this  man  and  two 
of  your  servants  to  go  upon  a  message  by  my  au- 
thority ;  and  as  I  am  in  the  commission  of  the 
peace,  I  undertake  to  secure  you." — "  Your  promise 
is  sufficient,"  replied  the  other,  "  and  you  may  at  a 
minute's  warning  send  them  over  England  when- 
ever your  honour  thinks  fit." 

In  pursuance  of  the  gaoler's  compliance  Jenkin- 
son  was  dispatched  in  search  of  Timothy  Baxter, 
while  we  were  amused  with  the  assiduity  of  our 
youngest  boy  Bill,  who  had  just  come  in,  and 
climbed  up  Sir  William's  neck  in  order  to  kiss  him. 
His  mother  was  immediately  going  to  chastise  his 
familiarity,  but  the  worthy  man  prevented  her ; 
and  taking  the  child,  all  ragged  as  he  was,  upon  his 
knee,  "What,  Bill,  you  chubby  rogue,"  cried  he, 
"  do  you  remember  your  old  friend  Burchell  ?  and 
Dick  too,  my  honest  veteran,  are  you  here  ?  you 
shall  find  I  have  not  forgot  you."  So  saying,  he 
gave  each  a  large  piece  of  gingerbread,  which  the 
poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily,  as  they  had  got  that 
morning  but  a  very  scanty  breakfast. 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


245 


We  now  sat  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost 
cold,  but  previously,  my  arm  still  continuing  pain- 
ful, Sir  William  wrote  a  prescription,  for  he  had 
made  the  study  of  physic  his  amusement,  and  was 
more  than  moderately  skilled  in  the  profession : 
this  being  sent  to  an  apothecary  who  lived  in  the 
place,  my  arm  was  dressed,  and  I  found  almost  in- 
stantaneous relief.  We  were  waited  upon  at  dinner 
by  the  gaoler  himself,  who  was  willing  to  do  our 
guest  all  the  honour  in  his  power.  But  before  we 
had  well  dined,  another  message  was  brought  from 
his  nephew,  desiring  permission  to  appear  in  order 
to  vindicate  his  innocence  and  honour ;  with  which 
request  the  baronet  complied,  and  desired  Mr. 
Thornhill  to  be  introduced. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
Former  benevolence  now  repaid  with  unexpected  interest 

Mr.  Thornhill  made  his  appearance  with  a 
smile,  which  he  seldom  wanted,  and  was  going  to 
embrace  his  uncle,  which  the  other  repulsed  with 
an  air  of  disdain.  "  No  fawning,  sir,  at  present," 
cried  the  baronet,  with  a  look  of  severity :  "  the 
only  way  to  my  heart  is  by  the  road  of  honour : 
but  here  I  only  see  complicated  instances  of  false- 
hood, cowardice,  and  oppression.  How  is  it,  sir, 
that  this  poor  man,  for  whom  I  know  you  professed 


246 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


a  friendship,  is  used  thus  hardly  ?  His  daughter 
vilely  seduced  as  a  recompense  for  his  hospitality, 
and  he  himself  thrown  into  prison,  perhaps  but  for 
resenting  the  insult?     His  son,  too,  whom  you 

feared  to  face  as  a  man  " 

"Is  it  possible,  sir,"  interrupted  his  nephew, 
"that  my  uncle  could  object  that  as  a  crime,  which 
his  repeated  instructions  alone  have  persuaded  me 
to  avoid  ?" 

"  Your  rebuke,"  cried  Sir  William,  "is  just ;  you 
have  acted  in  this  instance  prudently  and  well, 
though  not  quite  as  your  father  would  have  done : 
my  brother,  indeed,  was  the  soul  of  honour;  but 
thou — Yes,  you  have  acted  in  this  instance  perfect- 
ly right,  and  it  has  my  warmest  approbation." 

"  And  I  hope,"  said  his  nephew,  "  that  the  rest 
of  my  conduct  will  not  be  found  to  deserve  censure. 
I  appeared,  sir,  with  this  gentleman's  daughter  at 
some  places  of  public  amusement :  thus,  what  was 
levity,  scandal  called  by  a  harsher  name,  and  it 
was  reported  that  I  had  debauched  her.  I  waited 
on  her  father  in  person,  willing  to  clear  the  thing  to 
his  satisfaction,  and  he  received  me  only  with  in- 
sult and  abuse.  As  for  the  rest,  with  regard  to  his 
being  here,  my  attorney  and  steward  can  best  in- 
form you,  as  I  commit  the  management  of  business 
entirely  to  them.  If  he  has  contracted  debts,  and 
is  unwilling,  or  even  unable  to  pay  them,  it  is  their 
business  to  proceed  in  this  manner ;  and  I  see  no 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


247 


hardship  or  injustice  in  pursuing  the  most  legal 
means  of  redress," 

"  If  this/'  cried  Sir  William,  "  be  as  you  have 
stated  it,  there  is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your 
offence;  and  though  your  conduct  might  have  been 
more  generous  in  not  suffering  this  gentleman  to  be 
oppressed  by  subordinate  tyranny,  yet  it  has  been 
at  least  equitable." 

"  He  cannot  contradict  a  single  particular/'  re- 
plied the  'Squire ;  u  I  defy  him  to  do  so ;  and 
several  of  my  servants  are  ready  to  attest  what  I 
say.  Thus,  sir/'  continued  he,  finding  that  I  was 
silent,  for  in  fact  I  could  not  contradict  him ;  "  thus, 
sir,  my  own  innocence  is  vindicated :  but  though 
at  your  entreaty,  I  am  ready  to  forgive  this  gentle- 
man every  other  offence,  yet  his  attempts  to  lessen 
me  in  your  esteem  excite  a  resentment  that  I  can- 
not govern ;  and  this,  too,  at  a  time  when  his  son 
was  actually  preparing  to  take  away  my  life; — this, 
I  say,  was  such  guilt,  that  I  am  determined  to  let 
the  law  take  its  course.  I  have  here  the  challenge 
that  was  sent  me,  and  two  witnesses  to  prove  it : 
one  of  my  servants  has  been  wounded  dangerously ; 
and  even  though  my  uncle  himself  should  dissuade 
me,  which  I  know  he  will  not,  yet  I  will  see  public 
justice  done,  and  he  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  Thou  monster,"  cried  my  wife,  "  hast  thou  not 
had  vengeance  enough  already,  but  must  my  poor 
boy  feel  thy  cruelty  ?    I  hope  that  good  Sir  Wil- 


248 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


liam  will  protect  us ;  for  my  son  is  ay  innocent  as 
a  child :  I  am  sure  he  is,  and  never  did  harm  to 
man." 

"Madam,"  replied  the  good  man,  "your  wishes 
for  his  safety  are  not  greater  than  mine ;  but  I  am 
sorry  to  find  his  guilt  too  plain  ;  and  if  my  nephew 
persists — "  But  the  appearance  of  Jenkinson  and 
the  gaoler's  two  servants  now  called  off  our  atten- 
tion, who  entered,  hauling  in  a  tall  man,  very 
genteely  dressed,  and  answering  the  description 
already  given  of  the  ruffian  who  had  carried  off  my 
daughter  :— "  Here,"  cried  Jenkinson,  pulling  him 
in,  "  here  we  have  him ;  and  if  ever  there  was  a 
candidate  for  Tyburn,  this  is  one." 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  prison- 
er, and  Jenkinson  who  had  him  in  custody,  he 
seemed  to  shrink  back  with  terror.  His  face  be- 
came pale  with  conscious  guilt,  and  he  would  have 
withdrawn  ;  but  Jenkinson,  who  perceived  his  de- 
sign, stopped  him. — "  What,  'Squire,"  cried  he, 
"  are  you  ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquaintances, 
Jenkinson  and  Baxter?  but  this  is  the  way  that  all 
great  men  forget  their  friends,  though  I  am  resolved 
we  will  not  forget  you.  Our  prisoner,  please  your 
honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William, 
"  has  already  confessed  all.  This  is  the  gentleman 
reported  to  be  so  dangerously  wounded.  He  de- 
clares that  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  first  put  him 
upon  this  affair;  that  he  gave  him  the  clothes  he 


YICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


249 


now  wears,  to  appear  like  a  gentleman;  and  fur- 
nished him  with  the  post-chaise.  The  plan  was 
laid  between  them,  that  he  should  carry  off  the 
young  lady  to  a  place  of  safety ;  and  that  there  he 
should  threaten  and  terrify  her ;  but  Mr.  Thornhill 
was  to  come  in  the  meantime,  as  if  by  accident,  to 
her  rescue;  and  that  they  should  fight  awhile,  and 
then  he  was  to  run  off, — by  which  Mr.  Thornhill 
would  have  the  better  opportunity  of  gaining  her 
affections  himself,  under  the  character  of  her  de- 
fender." 

Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been 
worn  by  his  nephew,  and  all  the  rest  the  prisoner 
himself  confirmed  by  a  more  circumstantial  account, 
concluding  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  often  declared 
to  him  that  he  was  in  love  with  both  sisters  at  the 
same  time. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Sir  William,  "what  a  viper 
have  I  been  fostering  in  my  bosom  ?  And  so  fond 
of  public  justice,  too,  as  he  seemed  to  be  !  But  he 
shall  have  it ;  secure  him,  Mr.  Gaoler  : — yet,  hold, 
I  fear  there  is  no  legal  evidence  to  detain  him." 

Upon  this  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  hu- 
mility, entreated  that  two  such  abandoned  wretches 
might  not  be  admitted  as  evidences  against  him, 
but  that  his  servants  should  be  examined. — "Your 
servants !"  replied  Sir  Willaim ;  "  wretch  !  call 
them  yours  no  longer ;  but  come  let  us  hear  what 
these  fellows  have  to  say ;  let  his  butler  be  called/ 


250 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  per- 
ceived by  his  former  masters  looks  that  all  his 
power  was  now  over.    "  Tell  me/'  cried  Sir  William 
sternly,  "  have  you  ever  seen  your  master  and  that 
fellow  dressed  up  in  his  clothes  in  company  to- 
gether ?" — "  Yes,  please  your  honour/'  cried  the 
butler,  "  a  thousand  times :  he  was  the  man  that 
always  brought  him  his  ladies." — "  How/'  inter- 
rupted young  Mr.  Thornhill,  "  this  to  my  face  !" — 
"  Yes,"  replied  the  butler,  u  or  to  any  man's  face. 
To  tell  you  a  truth,  Master  Thornhill,  I  never 
either  loved  or  liked  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  tell 
you  now  a  piece  of  my  mind." — "  Now,  then,"  cried 
Jenkinson,  "  tell  his  honour  whether  you  know  any 
thing  of  me." — "  I  can't  say,"  replied  the  butler, 
"  that  I  know  much  good  of  you.    The  night  that 
gentleman's  daughter  was  deluded  to  our  house, 
you  were  one  of  them." — "  So,  then,"  cried  Sii 
Willaim,  "  I  find  you  have  brought  a  very  fine  wit- 
ness to  prove  your  innocence  :  thou  stain  to  hu- 
manity !  to  associate  with  such  wretches !  But/' 
continuing  his  examination,  "you  tell  me,  Mr. 
Butler,  that  this  was  the  person  who  brought  him 
this  old  gentleman's  daughter." — "  No,  please  your 
honour/'  replied  the  butler,  he  did  not  bring  her, 
for  the  'Squire  himself  undertook  that  business  :  but 
he  brought  the  priest  that  pretended  to  marry 
them." — "  It  is  but  too  true,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "  I 
cannot  deny  it;  that  was  the  employment  assigned 
me,  and  I  confess  it  to  my  confusion." 


VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 


251 


"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "  how 
every  new  discovery  of  his  villainy  alarms  me. 
All  his  guilt  is  now  too  plain,  and  I  find  his  prose- 
cution was  dictated  by  tyranny,  cowardice,  and  re- 
venge. At  my  request,  Mr.  Gaoler,  set  this  young 
officer,  now  your  prisoner,  free,  and  trust  to  me  for 
the  consequences.  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  set 
the  affair  in  a  proper  light  to  my  friend  the  magis- 
trate who  has  committed  him. — But  where  is  the 
unfortunate  young  lady  herself?  Let  her  appear 
to  confront  this  wretch  :  I  long  to  know  by  what 
arts  he  has  seduced  her.  Entreat  her  to  come  in. 
Where  is  she  ?" 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  question  stings  me  to 
the  heart ;  I  was  once  indeed  happy  in  a  daughter, 

but  her  miseries  "    Another  interruption  here 

prevented  me ;  for  who  should  make  her  appearance 
but  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  next  day  to 
have  been  married  to  Mr.  Thornhill.  Nothing 
could  equal  her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir  William  and 
his  nephew  here  before  her ;  for  her  arrival  was 
quite  accidental.  It  happened  that  she  and  the 
old  gentleman,  her  father,  were  passing  through  the 
town  on  her  way  to  her  aunt's,  who  insisted  that 
her  nuptials  with  Mr.  Thornhill  should  be  consum- 
mated at  her  house ;  but  stopping  for  refreshment, 
they  put  up  at  an  inn  at  the  other  end  of  the  town. 
It  was  there,  from  the  window,  that  the  young 
lady  happened  to  observe  one  of  my  little  boys, 


252 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


playing  in  the  street,  and  instantly  sending  a  foot 
man  to  bring  the  child  to  her,  she  learned  from 
him  some  account  of  our  misfortunes  ;  but  was  still 
kept  ignorant  of  young  Mr.  Thornhill's  being  the 
cause.  Though  her  father  made  several  remon- 
strances on  the  impropriety  of  going  to  a  prison  to 
visit  us,  yet  they  were  ineffectual ;  she  desired  the 
child  to  conduct  her,  which  he  did,  and  it  was  thus 
she  surprised  us  at  a  juncture  so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I  go  on  without  a  reflection  on  those 
accidental  meetings,  which,  though  they  happen 
every  day,  seldom  excite  our  surprise  but  upon 
some  extraordinary  occasion.  To  what  a  fortuitous 
concurrence  do  we  not  owe  every  pleasure  and 
convenience  of  our  lives !  How  many  seeming 
accidents  must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed  or 
fed !  The  peasant  must  be  disposed  to  labour,  the 
shower  must  fall,  the  wind  fill  the  merchant's  sail, 
or  numbers  must  want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while 
my  charming  pupil,  which  was  the  name  I  general- 
ly gave  this  young  lady,  united  in  her  looks  com- 
passion and  astonishment,  which  gave  new  finishing 
to  her  beauty.  "  Indeed,  my  dear  Mr.  Thornhill," 
cried  she  to  the  'Squire,  who  she  supposed  was  come 
here  to  succour,  and  not  to  oppress  us,  "  I  take  it 
a  little  unkindly  that  you  should  come  here  without 
me,  or  never  inform  me  of  the  situation  of  a  fami- 
ly so  dear  to  us  both ;  you  know  I  should  take  aa 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


253 


much  pleasure  in  contributing  to  the  relief  of  ray 
reverend  old  master  here,  whom  I  shall  ever  esteem, 
as  you  can.  But  I  find  that,  like  your  uncle,  you 
take  a  pleasure  in  doing  good  in  secret." 

"  He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good  !"  cried  Sir  Wil- 
liam, interrupting  her.  "  No,  my  dear,  his  plea- 
sures are  as  base  as  he  is.  You  see  in  him, 
madam,  as  complete  a  villain  as  ever  disgraced 
humanity.  A  wretch,  who,  after  having  deluded 
this  poor  man's  daughter,  after  plotting  against  the 
innocence  of  her  sister,  has  thrown  the  father  into 
prison,  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters,  because  he 
had  the  courage  to  face  her  betrayer.  And  give 
me  leave,  madam,  now  to  congratulate  you  upon 
an  escape  from  the  embraces  of  such  a  monster." 

"  0  goodness,"  cried  the  lovely  girl,  "  how  have 
[  been  deceived  !  Mr.  Thornhill  informed  me  for 
certain  that  this  gentleman's  eldest  son,  Captain 
Primrose,  was  gone  off  to  America  with  his  new- 
married  lady." 

"  My  sweetest  miss,"  cried  my  wife,  "  he  has 
told  you  nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George 
never  left  the  kingdom,  nor  ever  was  married. — 
Though  you  have  forsaken  him,  he  has  always 
loved  you  too  well  to  think  of  any  body  else ;  and 
I  have  heard  him  say,  he  would  die  a  bachelor  for 
your  sake."  She  then  proceeded  to  expatiate  upon 
the  sincerity  of  her  son's  passion.  She  set  his  due] 
with  Mr.  Thornhill  in  a  proper  light ;  from  thence 


254 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


she  made  a  rapid  digression  tc  ihe  'Squire's  de« 
baucheries,  his  pretended  marriages,  and  ended 
with  a  most  insulting  picture  of  his  cowardice. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  cried  Miss  Wilmot,  "  how  very 
near  have  I  been  to  the  brink  of  ruin !  Ten 
thousand  falsehoods  has  this  gentleman  told  me  : 
he  had  at  last  art  enough  to  persuade  me,  that  my 
promise  to  the  only  man  I  esteemed  was  no  longer 
binding,  since  he  had  been  unfaithful.  By  his 
falsehoods  I  was  taught  to  detest  one  equally  brave 
and  generous." 

But  by  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  in- 
cumbrances of  justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to  be 
wounded  was  detected  to  be  an  imposter.  Mr. 
Jenkinson  also,  who  had  acted  as  his  valet  de  c7iam- 
hre,  had  dressed  up  his  hair,  and  furnished  him  with 
whatever  was  necessary  to  make  a  genteel  appear- 
ance. He  now  therefore  entered,  handsomly  dressed 
in  his  regimentals ;  and  without  vanity  (for  I  am 
above  it,)  he  appeared  as  handsome  a  fellow  as  ever 
wore  a  military  dress.  As  he  entered,  he  made 
Miss  Wilmot  a  modest  and  distant  bow,  for  he  was 
not  as  yet  acquainted  with  the  change  which  the 
eloquence  of  his  mother  had  wrought  in  his  favour. 
But  no  decorums  could  restrain  the  impatience  of 
his  blushing  mistress  to  be  forgiven.  Hei  tears, 
her  looks,  all  contributed  to  discover  the  real  sen- 
sations of  her  heart,  for  having  forgotten  her  former 
promise,  and  having  suffered  herself  to  be  deluded 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


255 


by  an  imposter.  My  son  appeared  amazed  at  her 
condescension,  and  could  scarcely  believe  it  real. — 
"  Sure,  madam/'  cried  he,  "  this  is  but  delusion  !  I 
can  never  have  merited  this  !  To  be  blessed  thus 
is  to  be  too  happy." — "  No,  sir."  replied  she  :  "  I 
have  been  deceived,  basely  deceived,  else  nothing 
could  have  ever  made  me  unjust  to  my  promise. 
You  know  my  friendship,  you  have  long  known  it; 
but  forget  what  I  have  done,  and  as  you  once  had 
my  warmest  vows  of  constancy,  you  shall  now  have 
them  repeated :  and  be  assured,  that  if  your  Ara- 
bella cannot  be  yours,  she  shall  never  be  another's." 
"  And  no  other's  you  shall  be,"  cried  Sir  William, 
"  if  I  have  any  influence  with  your  father." 

This  hint  was  sufficient  for  my  son  Moses,  who 
immediately  flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentle- 
man was,  to  inform  him  of  every  circumstance  that 
had  happened.  But  in  the  meantime  the  'Squire, 
perceiving  that  he  was  on  every  side  undone,  now 
finding  that  no  hopes  were  left  from  flattery  and 
dissimulation,  concluded  that  his  wisest  way  would 
be  to  turn  and  face  his  pursuers.  Thus,  laying 
aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the  open  hardy  villain. 
" I  find,  then,"  cried  he,  "that  I  am  to  expect  no 
justice  here ;  but  I  am  resolved  it  shall  be  done  me. 
You  shall  know,  sir,"  turning  to  Sir  William,  "  I 
am  no  longer  a  poor  dependent  upon  your  favours, 
I  scorn  them.  Nothing  can  keep  Miss  Wilmot's 
fortune  from  me,  which,  I  thank  her  father's  asst 


256 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


duity,  is  pretty  large.  The  a/ticles  and  a  bond  for 
her  fortune  are  signed,  and  safe  in  my  possession. 
It  was  her  fortune,  not  her  person,  that  induced 
me  to  wish  for  this  match;  and  possessed  of  the 
one,  let  who  will  take  the  other." 

This  was  an  alarming  blow.  Sir  William  was 
sensible  of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  for  he  had 
been  instrumental  in  drawing  up  the  marriage  arti- 
cles himself.  Miss  Wilmot,  therefore,  perceiving 
that  her  fortune  was  irretrievably  lost,  turning  to 
my  son,  she  asked  if  the  loss  of  her  fortune  could 
lessen  her  value  to  him  ?  "  Though  fortune/'  said 
she,  "  is  out  of  my  power,  at  least  I  have  my  heart 
to  give.'1 

"  And  that,  madam,"  cried  her  real  lover,  "  was 
indeed  all  that  you  ever  had  to  give ;  at  least  all 
that  I  ever  thought  worth  the  acceptance.  And  I 
now  protest,  my  Arabella,  by  all  that's  happy,  your 
want  of  fortune  this  moment  increases  my  pleasure, 
as  it  serves  to  convince  my  sweet  girl  of  my  sin- 
cerity." 

Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a  little 
pleased  at  the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  escaped, 
and  readily  consented  to  a  dissolution  of  the  match. 
But  finding  that  her  fortune,  which  was  secured  to 
Mr.  Thornhill  by  bond,  would  not  be  given  up, 
nothing  could  exceed  his  disappointment.  He  now 
saw  that  his  money  must  all  go  to  enrich  one  who 
had  no  fortune  of  his  own.    He  could  bear  his 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


257 


being  a  rascal,  but  to  want  an  equivalent  to  his 
daughter's  fortune  was  wormwood.  He  sat  there- 
fore for  some  minutes  employed  in  the  most  morti- 
fying speculations,  till  Sir  William  attempted  to 
lessen  his  anxiety. — "I  must  confess,  sir/'  cried  he, 
"  that  your  present  disappointment  does  not  entire- 
ly displease  me.  Your  immoderate  passion  for 
wealth  is  now  justly  punished.  But  though  the 
young  lady  cannot  be  rich,  she  has  still  a  compe- 
tence sufficient  to  give  content.  Here  you  see  an  hon- 
est young  soldier,  who  is  willing  to  take  her  without 
fortune  :  they  have  long  loved  each  other ;  and  for 
the  friendship  I  bear  his  father,  my  interest  shall 
not  be  wanting  in  his  promotion.  Leave  then  that 
ambition  which  disappoints  you,  and  for  once  admit 
that  happiness  which  courts  your  acceptance." 

"  Sir  William,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "  be 
assured  I  never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will 
I  now.  If  she  still  continues  to  love  this  young 
gentleman,  let  her  have  him  with  all  my  heart. 
There  is  still,  thank  Heaven,  some  fortune  left,  and 
your  promise  will  make  it  something  more.  Only 
let  my  old  friend  here  (meaning  me)  give  me  a 
promise  of  settling  six  thousand  pounds  upon  my 
girl  if  ever  he  should  come  to  his  fortune,  and  I  am 
ready  this  night  to  be  the  first  to  join  them  to- 
gether." 

As  it  now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young 
couple  happy,  I  readily  gave  a  promise  of  making 


258 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


the  settlement  he  required,  which  from  one  who 
had  such  little  expectations  as  I,  was  no  great  fa- 
vour.— We  had  now,  therefore,  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  them  fly  into  each  others  arms  in  a  trans- 
port.— "  After  all  my  misfortunes,"  cried  my  son 
George,  "to  be  thus  rewarded  !  Sure  this  is  more 
than  I  could  have  presumed  to  hope  for.  To  be 
possessed  of  all  that's  good,  and  after  such  an  in- 
terval of  pain !  My  warmest  wishes  could  never 
rise  so  high !" 

"  Yes,  my  George,"  returned  his  lovely  bride, 
"  now  let  the  wretch  take  my  fortune  :  since  you 
are  happy  without  it,  so  am  I.  0  what  an  exchange 
have  I  made  from  the  basest  of  men  to  the  dearest, 
best ! — Let  him  enjoy  our  fortune,  I  now  can  be 
happy  even  in  indigence." — "  And  I  promise  you," 
cried  the  'Squire,  with  a  malicious  grin,  "  that  I 
shall  be  very  happy  with  what  you  despise." — 
"Hold,  hold,  sir,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "  there  are  two 
words  to  that  bargain.  As  for  that  lady's  fortune, 
sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a  single  stiver  of  it. 
Pray,  your  honour,"  continued  he  to  Sir  William, 
"  can  the  Squire  have  this  lady's  fortune  if  he  be 
married  to  another  ?" — "  How  can  you  make  such 
a  simple  demand  ?"  replied  the  baronet :  "  undoubt- 
edly he  cannot." — "  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  cried 
Jenkinson ;  "for  as  this  gentleman  and  I  have  been 
old  fellow-sporters,  I  have  a  friendship  for  him. 
But  I  must  declare,  wrell  as  I  love  him,  that  his 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


259 


contract  is  not  worth  a  tobacco-stopper,  for  he  is 
married  already/' — "You  lie,  like  a  rascal/'  return- 
ed the  'Squire,  who  seemed  roused  by  this  insult ; 
66 1  never  was  legally  married  to  any  woman." 

"  Indeed,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,"  replied 
the  other,  "  you  were ;  and  I  hope  you  will  show  a 
proper  return  of  friendship  to  your  own  honest 
Jenkinson,  who  brings  you  a  wife ;  and  if  the  com- 
pany restrain  their  curiosity  a  few  minutes,  they 
shall  see  her."  So  saying  he  went  off  with  his 
usual  celerity,  and  left  us  all  unable  to  form  any 
probable  conjecture  as  to  his  design.  "  Ay,  let  him 
go,"  cried  the  'Squire ;  "  whatever  else  I  may  have 
done.  I  defv  him  there.  I  am  too  old  now  to  be 
frightened  with  squibs." 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what  the 
fellow  can  intend  by  this.  Some  low  piece  of  hu- 
mour, I  suppose." — "  Perhaps,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  he 
may  have  a  more  serious  meaning.  For  when  we 
reflect  on  the  various  schemes  this  gentleman  has 
laid  to  seduce  innocence,  perhaps  some  one,  more 
artful  than  the  rest,  has  been  found  able  to  deceive 
him.  When  we  consider  what  numbers  he  has  ru- 
ined, how  many  parents  now  feel  with  anguish  the 
infamy  and  the  contamination  which  he  has  brought 
into  their  families,  it  would  not  surprise  me  if  some 
one  of  them — Amazement !  Do  I  see  my  lost 
daughter?  Do  I  hold  her?  It  is,  it  is  my  life,  my 
happiness.    I  thought  thee  lost,  my  Olivia,  yet  still 

17 


260 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I  hold  thee — and  still  thou  shalt  live  to  bless  me." 
The  warmest  transports  of  the  fondest  lover  were 
not  greater  than  mine,  when  I  saw  him  introduce 
my  child,  and  held  my  daughter  in  my  arms,  whose 
silence  only  spoke  her  raptures. 

"  And  art  thou  returned  to  me,  my  darling,"  cried 

I,  "  to  be  my  comfort  in  age  !"  "  That  she  is," 

cried  Jenkinson,  "and  make  much  of  her,  for  she 
is  your  own  honourable  child,  and  as  honest  a  wo- 
man as  any  in  the  whole  room,  let  the  other  be 
who  she  will.  And  as  for  you,  'Squire,  as  sure  as 
you  stand  there,  this  young  lady  is  your  lawful  wed- 
ded wife.  And  to  convince  you  that  I  speak  nothing 
but  the  truth,  here  is  the  license  by  which  you 
were  married  together." — So  saying,  he  put  the 
license  into  the  baronet's  hands,  who  read  it,  and 
found  it  perfect  in  every  respect.  "  And  now, 
gentlemen,"  continued  he,  "  I  find  you  are  surprised 
at  all  this ;  but  a  few  words  will  explain  the  diffi- 
culty. That  there  'Squire  of  renown,  for  whom  I 
have  a  great  friendship  (but  that's  between  our- 
selves), has  often  employed  me  in  doing  odd  little 
things  for  him.  Among  the  rest  he  commissioned 
me  to  procure  him  a  false  license  and  a  false  priest, 
in  order  to  deceive  this  young  lady.  But  as  I  was 
very  much  his  friend,  what  did  I  do,  but  went  and 
got  a  true  license  and  a  true  priest,  and  married 
them  both  as  fast  as  the  cloth  could  make  them. 
Perhaps  you'll  think  it  was  generosity  that  made 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


261 


me  do  all  this :  but  no ;  to  my  shame  I  confess  it, 
my  only  design  was  to  keep  the  license,  and  let  the 
'Squire  know  that  I  could  prove  it  upon  him  when- 
ever I  thought  proper,  and  so  make  him  come  down 
whenever  I  wanted  money."  A  burst  of  pleasure 
now  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  apartment ;  our  joy 
reached  even  to  the  common  room,  where  the  pri- 
soners themselves  sympathized, 

And  shook  their  chains 

In  transport  and  rude  harmony. 

Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and 
even  Olivia's  cheek  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure. 
To  be  thus  restored  to  reputation,  to  friends  and 
fortune  at  once,  was  a  rapture  sufficient  to  stop  the 
progress  of  decay,  and  restore  former  health  and 
vivacity.  But  perhaps  among  all  there  was  not  one 
who  felt  since rer  pleasure  than  I.  Still  holding 
the  dear  loved  child  in  my  arms,  I  asked  my  heart 
if  these  transports  were  not  delusion.  "  How  could 
you,"  cried  I,  "  turning  to  Mr.  Jenkinson,  "how 
could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the  story  of  her 
death  ?  But  it  matters  not ;  my  pleasure  at  finding 
her  again  is  more  than  a  recompense  for  the  pain." 

"As  to  your  question,"  replied  Jenkinson,  "  that 
18  easily  answered.  I  thought  the  only  probable 
'neans  of  freeing  you  from  prison,  was  by  submit- 
ting to  the  'Squire,  and  consenting  to  his  marriage 
with  the  other  young  lady.    But  these  j~ou  had 


262 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


vowed  never  to  grant  while  your  daughter  was  liv- 
ing ;  there  was  therefore  no  other  method  to  bring 
things  to  bear,  but  by  persuading  you  that  she  was 
dead.  I  prevailed  on  your  wife  to  join  in  the  deceit, 
and  we  have  not  had  a  fit  opportunity  of  undeceiv- 
ing you  till  now." 

In  the  whole  assembly  there  now  appeared  only 
two  faces  that  did  not  glow  with  transport.  Mr. 
Thornhill's  assurance  had  entirely  forsaken  him : 
he  now  saw  the  gulf  of  infamy  and  want  before  him, 
and  trembled  to  take  the  plunge.  He  therefore  fell 
on  his  knees  before  his  uncle,  and  in  a  voice  of 
piercing  misery  implored  compassion.  Sir  William 
was  going  to  spurn  him  away,  but  at  my  request 
he  raised  him,  and,  after  pausing  a  few  moments, 
"  Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingratitude,"  cried  he, 
"  deserve  no  tenderness ;  yet  thou  shalt  not  be  en- 
tirely forsaken — a  bare  competence  shall  be  supplied 
to  support  the  wants  of  life,  but  not  its  follies.  This 
young  lady,  thy  wife,  shall  be  put  in  possession  of 
a  third  part  of  that  fortune  which  once  was  thine, 
and  from  her  tenderness  alone  thou  art  to  expect 
any  extraordinary  supplies  for  the  future/'  He 
was  going  to  express  his  gratitude  for  such  kind- 
ness in  a  set  speech;  but  the  baronet  prevented 
him,  by  bidding  him  not  aggravate  his  meanness, 
which  was  already  but  too  apparent.  He  ordered 
him  at  the  same  time  to  begone,  and  from  all  his 
former  domestics  to  choose  one,  such  as  he  should 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


263 


think  proper,  which  was  all  that  should  be  granted 
to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us,  Sir  William  very  politely 
stepped  up  to  his  new  niece  with  a  smile,  and  wished 
her  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by  Miss  Wilmot 
and  her  father.  My  wife  too  kissed  her  daughter 
with  much  affection,  as,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
she  was  now  made  an  honest  woman  of.  Sophia 
and  Moses  followed  in  turn,  and  even  our  benefactor 
Jenkinson  desired  to  be  admitted  to  that  honour. 
Our  satisfaction  seemed  scarcely  capable  of  increase. 
Sir  William,  whose  greatest  pleasure  was  in  doing 
good,  now  looked  round  with  a  countenance  open 
as  the  sun,  and  saw  nothing  but  joy  in  the  looks  of 
all  except  that  of  my  daughter  Sophia,  who,  for  some 
reasons  we  could  not  comprehend,  did  not  seem 
perfectly  satisfied.  "I  think,  now,"  cried  he,  with 
a  smile,  "that  all  the  company  except  one  or  two 
seem  perfectly  happy.  There  only  remains  an  act 
of  justice  for  me  to  do.  You  are  sensible,  sir,"  con- 
tinued he,  turning  to  me,  "  of  the  obligations  we 
both  owe  Mr.  Jenkinson,  and  it  is  but  just  we 
should  both  reward  him  for  it.  Miss  Sophia  will,  I 
am  sure,  make  him  very  happy,  and  he  shall  have 
from  me  five  hundred  pounds  as  her  fortune  :  and 
upon  this  I  am  sure  they  can  live  very  comfortably 
together.   Come,  Miss  Sophia,  what  say  you  to  this 

match  of  my  making  ?    Will  you  have  him  ?"  

My  poor  girl  seemed  almost  sinking  into  her 


264 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


mother's  arms  at  this  hideous  proposal- — "Have 
him,  sir !"  cried  she  faintly  :  "  No,  sir,  never." — ■ 
u  What !"  cried  he  again,  "  not  have  Mr.  Jenkinson, 
your  benefactor,  a  handsome  young  fellow,  with 
five  hundred  pounds,  and  good  expectations  ?" — "  I 
beg,  sir,"  returned  she,  scarcely  able  to  speak,  "  that 
you'll  desist,  and  not  make  me  so  very  wretched." 
"  Was  ever  such  obstinacy  known  ?"  cried  he  again, 
"  to  refuse  a  man  whom  the  family  has  such  infi- 
nite obligations  to,  who  has  preserved  your  sister, 
and  who  has  five  hundred  pounds !  What,  not 
have  him  ?"  "  No,  sir,  never,"  replied  she  an- 
grily ;  "  I'd  sooner  die  first." — "  If  that  be  the  case, 
then,"  cried  he,  "  if  you  will  not  have  him — I 
think  I  must  have  you  myself."  And  so  saying, 
he  caught  her  to  his  breast  with  ardour.  "  My 
loveliest,  my  most  sensible  of  girls,"  cried  he,  "  how 
could  you  ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could  de- 
ceive you,  or  that  Sir  William  Thornhill  could  ever 
cease  to  admire  a  mistress  that  loved  him  for  him- 
self alone  ?  I  have  for  some  years  sought  for  a 
woman,  who,  a  stranger  to  my  fortune,  could  think 
that  I  had  merit  as  a  man.  After  having  tried  in 
vain,  even  amongst  the  pert  and  the  ugly,  how 
great  at  last  must  be  my  rapture  to  have  made  a  con- 
quest over  such  sense  and  such  heavenly  beauty !" 
Then  turning  to  Jenkinson ;  "  As  I  cannot,  sir, 
part  with  this  young  lady  myself,  for  she  has  taken 
a  fancy  to  the  cut  of  my  face,  all  the  recompense  I 


VICAR  OF  W  AKEFIELD. 


205 


can  make  is  to  give  you  her  fortune ;  and  you  may 
call  upon  my  steward  to-morrow  for  five  hundred 
pounds."  Thus,,  we  had  all  our  compliments  to  re- 
peat, and  Lady  Thornhill  underwent  the  same 
round  of  ceremony  that  her  sister  had  done  before. 
In  the  meantime,  Sir  William's  gentleman  appeared 
to  tell  us  that  the  equipages  were  ready  to  carry 
us  to  the  inn,  where  every  thing  was  prepared  for 
our  reception.  My  wife  and  I  led  the  van,  and 
left  those  gloomy  mansions  of  sorrow.  The  gene- 
rous baronet  ordered  forty  pounds  to  be  distributed 
among  the  prisoners,  and  Mr.  Wilmot,  induced  by 
his  example,  gave  half  that  sum.  We  were  re- 
ceived below  by  the  shouts  of  the  villagers,  and  I 
saw  and  shook  by  the  hand  two  or  three  of  my 
honest  parishioners,  who  were  among  the  number. 
They  attended  us  to  our  inn,  where  a  sumptuous 
entertainment  was  provided,  and  coarser  provisions 
were  distributed  in  great  quantities  among  the 
populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by 
the  alternation  of  pleasure  and  pain  which  they 
had  sustained  during  the  day,  I  asked  permission 
to  withdraw;  and  leaving  the  company  in  the 
midst  of  their  mirth,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 
alone,  I  poured  out  my  heart  in  gratitude  to  the 
Giver  of  joy  as  well  as  of  sorrow,  and  then  slept 
undisturbed  till  morning. 


266 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
The  Conclusion. 

The  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awaked  I  found 
my  eldest  son  sitting  by  my  bed-side,  who  came  to 
increase  my  joy  with  another  turn  of  fortune  in  my 
favour.  First  having  released  me  from  the  settle- 
ment that  I  had  made  the  day  before  in  his  favour, 
he  let  me  know  that  my  merchant  who  had  failed 
in  town  was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had 
given  up  effects  to  a  much  greater  amount  than 
what  was  due  to  his  creditors.  My  boy's  generosi- 
ty pleased  me  almost  as  much  as  this  unlooked-for 
good  fortune ;  but  I  had  some  doubts  whether  I 
ought  in  justice  to  accept  his  offer.  While  I  was 
pondering  upon  this,  Sir  William  entered  the  room, 
to  whom  I  communicated  my  doubts.  His  opinion 
was,  that  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of  a 
very  affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I  might  ac- 
cept his  offer  without  any  hesitation.  His  business, 
however,  was  to  inform  me,  that  as  he  had  the 
night  before  sent  for  the  licenses,  and  expected 
them  every  hour,  he  hoped  that  I  would  not  refuse 
my  assistance  in  making  all  the  company  happy 
that  morning.  A  footman  entered  while  we  were 
speaking,  to  tell  us  that  the  messenger  was  return- 
ed j  and  as  I  was  by  this  time  ready,  I  went  down, 


VIOAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


267 


where  I  found  the  whole  company  as  merry  as  a£ 
Huence  and  innocence  could  make  them.  However, 
as  they  were  now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn  cere- 
mony, their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I  told 
them  of  the  grave,  becoming,  and  sublime  deport- 
ment they  should  assume  upon  this  mystical  occa- 
sion, and  read  them  two  homilies,  and  a  thesis  of  my 
own  composing,  in  order  to  prepare  them.  Yet  they 
still  seemed  perfectly  refractory  and  ungovernable. 
Even  as  we  were  going  along  to  church,  to  which  I 
led  the  way,  all  gravity  had  quite  forsaken  them, 
and  I  was  often  tempted  to  turn  back  in  indignation. 
In  church  a  new  dilemma  arose,  which  promised 
no  easy  solution.  This  was,  which  couple  should 
be  married  first.  My  son's  bride  warmly  insisted 
that  Lady  Thornhill  (that  was  to  be)  should  take 
the  lead :  but  this  the  other  refused  with  equal 
ardour,  protesting  she  would  not  be  guilty  of  such 
rudeness  for  the  world.  The  argument  was  sup- 
ported for  some  time  between  both  with  equal  ob- 
stinacy and  good-breeding.  But  as  I  stood  all  this 
time  with  my  book  ready,  I  was  at  last  quite  tired 
of  the  contest ;  and  shutting  it,  "  I  perceive,"  cried 
I,  "  that  none  of  you  have  a  mind  to  be  married, 
and  I  think  we  had  as  good  go  back  again ;  for  1 
suppose  there  will  be  no  business  done  here  to-day." 
This  at  once  reduced  them  to  reason.  The  baro» 
net  and  his  lady  were  first  married,  and  then  my 
©on  and  his  lovely  partner. 


268 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


I  had  previously  that  morning  given  orders  that 
a  coach  should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbour 
Flamborough  and  his  family;  by  which  means, 
upon  our  return  to  the  inn,  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
finding  the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  alighted  before 
us.  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave  his  hand  to  the  eldest, 
and  my  son  Moses  led  up  the  other  (and  I  have 
since  found  that  he  has  taken  a  real  liking  to  the 
girl,  and  my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall  have, 
whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  demand  them.)  We 
were  no  sooner  returned  to  the  inn,  but  numbers 
of  my  parishioners,  hearing  of  my  success,  came  to 
congratulate  me :  but  among  the  rest  were  those 
who  rose  to  rescue  me,  and  whom  I  formerly  re- 
buked with  such  sharpness.  I  told  the  story  to 
Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went  out  and  re- 
proved them  with  great  severity ;  but  finding  them 
quite  disheartened  by  his  harsh  reproof,  he  gave 
them  half  a  guinea  a-piece  to  drink  his  health,  and 
raise  their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very  genteel 
entertainment,  which  was  dressed  by  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill's  cook.  And  it  may  not  be  improper  to  observe 
with  respect  to  that  gentleman,  that  he  now  resides, 
in  quality  of  companion,  at  a  relation's  house,  being 
very  well  liked,  and  seldom  sitting  at  the  side  table, 
except  when  there  is  no  room  at  the  other ;  for  they 
make  no  stranger  of  him.  His  time  is  pretty  much 
taken  up  in  keeping  his  relation,  who  is  a  little 


VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD. 


269 


melancholy,  in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to  blow  the 
French  horn.  My  eldest  daughter,  however,  still 
remembers  him  with  regret ;  and  she  has  even  told 
me,  though  I  make  a  secret  of  it,  that  when  he  re- 
forms she  may  be  brought  to  relent.  But  to  return, 
for  I  am  not  apt  to  digress  thus ;  when  we  were  to 
sit  down  to  dinner  our  ceremonies  were  going  to  be 
renewed.  The  question  was,  whether  my  eldest 
daughter,  as  being  a  matron,  should  not  sit  above 
the  two  young  brides ;  but  the  debate  was  cut  short 
by  my  son  George,  who  proposed  that  the  company 
should  sit  indiscriminately,  every  gentleman  by  his 
lady.  This  was  received  with  great  approbation  by 
all,  excepting  my  wife,  who,  I  could  perceive,  was 
not  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she  expected  to  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
carving  the  meat  for  all  the  company.  But,  not- 
withstanding this,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  our 
good-humour.  I  can't  say  whether  we  had  more 
wit  among  us  now  than  usual;  but  I  am  certain  we 
had  more  laughing,  which  answered  the  end  as 
well.  One  jest  I  particularly  remember :  old  Mr. 
Wilmot  drinking  to  Moses,  whose  head  was  turned 
another  way,  my  son  replied,  "  Madam,  I  thank 
you."  Upon  which  the  old  gentleman,  winking 
upon  the  rest  of  the  company,  observed,  that  he 
was  thinking  of  his  mistress  :  at  which  jest  I  thought 
the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  would  have  died  with 
laughing.    As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  according 


270 


VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  my  old  custom,  I  requested  that  the  table  might 
be  taken  away,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all 
my  family  assembled  once  more  by  a  cheerful  fire- 
side. My  two  little  ones  sat  upon  each  knee,  the 
rest  of  the  company  by  their  partners.  I  had 
nothing  now  on  this  side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for ; 
all  my  cares  were  over ;  my  pleasure  was  unspeak- 
able. It  now  only  remained,  that  my  gratitude  in 
good  fortune  should  exceed  my  former  submission 
in  adversity. 


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(1) 


2 


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3 


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Cook,  author  of  "  A  Holiday  Tour  in  Europe,"  etc.    With  487 
finely  engraved  illustrations,  descriptive  of  the  most  famous 
and  attractive  places,  as  well  as  of  the  historic  scenes  and 
rural  life  of  England  and  Wales.    With  Mr.  Cook's  admirable 
descriptions  of  the  places  and  the  country,  and  the  splendid  il- 
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This  work,  which  is  prepared  in  elegant  style,  and  profusely  illustrated, 
is  a  comprehensive  description  of  England  and  Wales,  arranged  in  conve- 
nient form  for  the  tourist,  and  at  the  same  time  providing  an  illustrated 
guide-book  to  a  country  which  Americans  always  view  with  interest.  There 
are  few  satisfactory  works  about  this  land  which  is  so  generously  gifted  by 
Nature  and  so  full  of  memorials  of  the  past.    Such  books  as  there  are,  either 
cover  a  few  counties  or  are  devoted  to  special  localities,  or  are  merely  euiid^- 
books.  The  present  work  is  believed  to  be  the  first  attempt  to  give  in  attrac- 
tive form  a  description  of  the  stately  homes,  renowned  castles,  ivy-clad  ruins 
of  abbeys,  churches,  and  ancient  fortresses,  delirious  scenery,  rock-bound 
coasts,  and  celebrate!  places  of  England  and  Wales.   It  is  written  by  an 
author  fully  competent  from  travel  and  reading,  and  in  position  to  propyl v 
describe  his  very  interesting  subject;  and  the  artist's  pencil  has  been  called 
into  requisition  to  graphically  illustrate,  its  well-written  pages.    There  are 
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the,  book  itself  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  ever  presented  to  the  American 
public. 

Its  method  of  construction  is  systematic,  following  the  most  convenient 
routes  taken  by  tourists,  and  the  letter-press  includes  enough  of  the  history 
and  legend  of  each  of  the  places  described  to  make  the  story  highly  inter- 
esting. Its  pages  fairly  overflow  with  picture  and  description,  telling  of 
everything  attractive  that  is  presented  by  England  and  Wales.  Executed 
in  the  highest  style  of  the  printer's  and  engraver's  art,  "England,  Pictur- 
esque and  Descriptive,"  is  one  of  the  best  American  books  of  the  year. 


4 


PORTER  &  COATES*  PUBLICATIONS. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  IN  AMERICA.  By  the  Comte 
De  Paris.  With  Maps  faithfully  Engraved  from  the  Origin- 
als, and  Printed  in  Three  Colors.  8vo.  Cloth,  per  volume, 
$3.50;  red  cloth,  extra,  Roxburgh  style,  uncut  edges,  $3.50; 
sheep,  library  style,  $4.50 ;  half  Turkey  morocco,  $6.00.  Vols. 
I,  II,  and  III  now  ready. 

The  third  volume  embraces,  without  abridgment,  the  fifth  and  sixth 
volumes  of  the  French  edition,  and  covers  one  of  the  most  interesting  as 
well  as  the  most  anxious  periods  of  the  war,  describing  the  operations  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  in  the  East,  and  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland  and 
Tennessee  in  the  West. 

It  contains  full  accounts  of  the  battle  of  Chancellors  viT«\  the  attack  of  the 
monitors  on  Fort  Sumter,  the  sieges  and  fall  of  Vicksbuig  and  Port  Hudson  ; 
the  battles  of  Port  Gibson  and  Champion's  Hill,  and  t  he  fullest  and  most 
authentic  account  of  the  battle  ol  Gettysburg  ever  written. 

"The  head  of  the  Orleans  family  has  put  pen  to  paper  with  excellent 

result  Our  present  impression  is  that  it  will  form  by  far  the  best 

history  of  the  American  war." — Athenceum,  London. 

"We  advise  all  Americans  to  read  it  carefully,  and  judge  for  themselves 
if  'the  future  historian  of  our  war,'  of  whom  we  have  heard  so  much,  be  not 
already  arrived  in  the  Comte  de  Paris." — Nation,  New  York. 

"This  is  incomparably  the  best  account  of  our  great  second  revolution 
that  has  yet  been  even  attempted.  It  is  so  calm,  so  dispassionate,  so  accurate 
in  detail/and  at  the  same  time  so  philosophical  in  general,  that  its  reader 
counts  confidently  on  finding  the  complete  work  thoroughly  satisfactory." — 
Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

"The  work  expresses  the  calm,  deliberate  judgment  of  an  experienced 
military  observer  and  a  highly  intelligent  man.  Many  of  its  statements 
will  excite  discussion,  but  we  much  mistake  if  it  does  not  take  high  *and 
permanent  ranK  among  the  standard  histories  of  the  civil  war.  Jndetd 
that  place  has  been  assigned  it  by  the  most  competent  critics  both  of  this 
country  and  abroad." — Times,  Cincinnati. 

"Messrs.  Porter  &  Coates,  of  Philadelphia  will  publish  in  a  few  days  the 
authorized  translation  of  the  new  volume  of  the  Comte  de  Paris'  History  of 
Our  Civil  War.  The  two  volumes  in  French— the  fifth  and  sixth— are  bound 
together  in  the  translation  in  one  volume.  Our  readers  already  know, 
through  a  table  of  contents  of  these  volumes,  published  in  the  cable  columns 
of  the  Herald,  the  period  covered  by  ibis  new  installment  of  a  work  remark- 
able in  several  ways.  It  includes  the  most  important  and  decisive  period  of 
the  war,  and  the  two  great  campaigns  of  Gettysburg  and  Vieksburg. 

"The  great  civil  war  has  had  no  better,  no  abler  historian  than  the  French 
prince  who,  emu'ating  the  example  of  Lafayette,  t<>ok  part  in  this  new 
struggle  for  freedom,  and  who  now  writes  of  events,  in  many  of  which  he 
participated,  as  an  accomplished  officer,  and  one  who,  by  his  independent 
position,  his  high  character  and  eminent  talents,  was  placed  in  circum- 
stances and  relations  which  gave  him  almost  unequalled  oppoitunities  to 
gain  correct  information  and  form  impartial  judgments. 

''The  new  installment  of  a  work  which  has  already  become  a  classic  will 
b^  read  with  increased  interest  by  Americans  because  of  the  importance  of 
the  period  it  covers  and  the  stirring  events  if  describes.  In  advance  ot  a 
careful  revi  w  we  present  to-day  some  extracts  from  the  advance  sheets  sent 
us  by  Messrs  Porter  &  Coai.es,  which  will  give  our  readers  a  foretaste  of 
chapters  which  bring  back  to  memory  so  many  half-forgotten  and  not  a  few 
hitherto  unvalued  details  of  a  tim^  which  Americans  of  this  generatio-u  at 
least  cannot  read  of  without  a  fresh  thrill  oi  excitement." 


PORTER  &  COATES?  PUBLICATIONS. 


5 


HALF-HOURS  WITH  THE  BEST  AUTHORS.  With  short  Bi- 
ographical and  Critical  Notes.    By  Charles  Knight. 

New  Household  Edition.  With  six  portraits  on  steel.  3  vols., 
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Library  Edition.  Printed  on  fine  laid  and  tinted  paper.  With 
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case  to  match,  $25.00. 

The  excellent  idea  of  the  editor  of  these  choice  volumes  has  been  most 
admirably  carried  out,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  list  of  authors  upon  all  sub- 
jects. S  d  ctingsome  choice  passages  of  the  best  standard  authors,  each  of  suffi- 
cient length  to  occupy  half  an  hour  in  its  perusal,  there  is  here  food  for 
thought  for  every  day  in  the  year:  so  that  if  the  purchaser  will  devote  but 
one-half  hour  each  day  to  its  appropriate  scleet-ion  he  will  read  through 
these  six  volumes  in  one  year,  and  in  such  a  ieisurely  manner  that  the 
noblest  thoughts  of  many  of  the  greatest  minds  wi.'i  be  firmly  in  his  mind 
forever.  For  every  Sunday  there  is  a  suitable  selection  from  some  of  the 
most,  eminent  writers  in  sacred  literature.  We  venture  to  say  if  the  editor's 
idea  is  carried  out  the  reader  will  possess  more  and  b  tter  knowledge  of  the 
English  classics  at  the  end  of  the  year  than  he  would  by  five  years  of  desul- 
tory reading. 

They  can  be  commenced  at  any  day  in  the  year.  The  variety  of  reading 
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itself. 

THE  POETRY  OF  OTHER  LANDS.    A  Collection  of  Transla- 
tions into  English  Verse  of  the  Poetry  of  Other  Languages, 
Ancient  and  Modern.     Compiled  by  1ST.  Clemmons  Hit  n't. 
Containing  translations  from  the  Greek,  Latin,  Persian,  Ara- 
bian, Japanese,  Turkish,  Servian,  Russian,  Bohemian,  Polish, 
Dutch,  German,  Italian,  French,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese 
languages.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  edges,  $2.50;  half  calf,  gilt, 
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"  Another  of  the  publications  of  Porter  &  Coates,  called  'The  Poetry  of 
Other  Lands,'  compiled  by  N.  Clemmons  Hunt,  we  most  warmly  commend. 
It  is  one  of  the  best  collections  we  have  seen,  containing  many  exquisite 
poems  and  fragments  of  verse  which  have  not  before  been  put  into  book 
form  in  English  words.    We  find  many  of  the  old  favorites,  which  appear 
in  every  well-selected  collection  of  sonnets  and  sorjgs,  and  we  miss  others, 
which  seem  a  necessity  to  complete  the  bouquet  of  grasses  and  flowers, 
some  of  which,  from  time  to  time,  we  hope  to  republish  in  the  '  Courier.  ": — 
Cincinnati  Courier. 

"A  book  of  rare  excellence,  because  it  gives  a  collection  of  choice  gems  in 
many  languages  not  available  t<>  the  general  lover  of  poetry.  It  con  tain  3 
translations  from  the  Greek,  Latin,  Persian,  Arabian,  Japanese,  Turkish, 
Servian,  Russian,  Bohemian,  Polish,  Dutch,  German.  Italian,  French, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese  languages.  The  book  will  be  an  admirable  com- 
panion volume  to  any  one  of  the  collections  of  English  poetry  that  are  now 
published.  With  the  full  index  of  authors  immediately  preceding  the  col- 
lection, and  the  arrangement  of  the  poems  under  headings,  the  reader  will 
find  it  convenient  for  reference.  It  is  a  gift  that  will  be  more  valued  by 
very  many  than  some  of  the  transitory  ones  at  these  holiday  times." — 
Philadelphia  Methodist. 


6 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY.     Edited  by 
Henry  T.  Coates.    This  is  the  latest,  and  beyond  doubt  the 
best  collection  of  poetry  published.  Printed  on  fine  paper  and 
illustrated  with  thirteen  steel  engravings  and  fifteen  title 
pages,  containing  portraits  of  prominent  American  poets  and 
fac-similes  of  their  handwriting,  made  expressly  for  this  book. 
8vo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  gilt  edges,  $5.00;  half  calf, 
gilt,  marbled  edges,  $7.50;  half  morocco,  full  gilt  edges,  $7.50; 
full  Turkey  morocco,  gilt  edges,  $10.00;  tree  calf,  gilt  edges, 
$12.00 ;  plush,  padded  side,  nickel  lettering,  $14.00. 
"The  editor  shows  a  wide  acquaintance  with  the  most  precious  treasures 
of  English  verse,  and  has  gathered  the  most  admirable  specimens  of  their 
ample  wealth.    Many  pieces  which  have  been  passed  by  in  previous  collec- 
tions hold  a  place  of  honor  in  the  present  volume,  and  will  be  heartily  wel- 
comed by  the  lovers  of  poetry  as  a  delightful  addition  to  their  sources  of 
enjoyment.    It  is  a  volume  rich  in  solace,  in  entertainment,  in  inspiration, 
of  which  the  possession  may  well  be  coveted  by  every  lover  of  poetry.  The 
pictorial  illustrations  of  the  work  are  in  keeping  with  its  poetical  contents, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  typographical  execution  entitles  it  to  a  place  among 
the  choicest  ornaments  of  the  library." — New  York  Tribune. 

"Lovers  of  good  poetry  will  find  this  one  of  the  richest  collections  ever 
made.  All  the  best  singers  in  our  language  are  r<  presented,  and  the  selec- 
tions are  generally  those  which  reveal  their  highest  qualities  The 

lights  and  shades,  the- finer  play  of  thought  and  imagination  belonging  to 
individual  authors,  are  brought  out  in  this  way  (by  the  arrangement  of 
poems  under  subject-headings)  as  they  would  not  be  under  any  other  sys- 
tem We  are  deeply  impressed  with  the  keen  appreciation  of  poetical 

worth,  and  also  with  the  good  taste  manifested  by  the  compiler." — Church- 
man. 

"Cyclopaedias of  poetry  are  numerous,  but  for  sterling  value  of  its  contents 
for  the  library,  or  as  a  book  of  reference,  no  work  of  the  kind  will  compare 
with  this  admirable  volume,  of  Mr.  Coates  It  takes  the  gems  from  many 
volumes,  culling  with  rare  skill  and  judgment."— Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  BOOK  OE  POETRY.    Compiled  by  Henry 
T.  Coates.     Containing  over  500  poems  carefully  selected 
from  the  works  of  the  best  and  most  popular  writers  for  chil- 
dren ;  with  nearly  200  illustrations.    The  most  complete  col- 
lection of  poetry  for  children  ever  published.    4to.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  gilt  side  and  edges,  $3.00;  full  Turkey 
morocco,  gilt  edges,  $7.50. 
"Thi3  sterns  to  us  the  best  book  of  poetry  for  children  in  existence.  We 
have  examined  many  other  collections,  but  we  cannot  name  another  that 
deserves  to  be  compared  with  this  admirable  compilation."—  Worcester  Spy. 

"The  special  value  of  the  book  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  nearly  or  quite 
covers  the  entire  field.  There  is  not  a  great  deal  of  good  poetry  which  has 
been  written  for  children  that  cannot  be  found  in  this  book.  The  collection 
is  particularly  strong  in  ballads  and  tales,  which  are  apt  to  interest  children 
more  than  poems  of  other  kinds;  and  Mr.  Coates  has  shown  good  judgment 
in  supplementing  this  department  with  some  of  the  best  poems  of  that  class 
that  have  been  written  for  trrown  people.  A  surer  method  of  forming  the 
taste  of  children  for  good  and  pure  literature  than  by  reading  to  them  from 
any  portion  of  this  book  can  hardly  be  imagined.  The  volume  is  richly 
illustrated  and  beautifully  bound."—  Philadelphia  Evening  Bul.etin.  ^ 

"A  more  excelleut  volume  cannot  be  found.  We  have  found  within  the 
covers  of  ibis  handsome  volume,  and  upon  its  fair  pages,  many  of  the  most 
exquisite  poems  which  our  language  contains.  It.  must  become  a  standard 
volume,  and  can  never  grow  old  or  obsolete."— Episcopal  Recorder. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


7 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  THOS.  HOOD.  With  engravings 
on  steel.    4  vols.,  12mo.,  tinted  paper.    Poetical  Works ;  Up 
the  Rhine;   Miscellanies  and  Hood's  Own;  Whimsicalities, 
Whims,  and  Oddities.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $6.00; 
red  cloth,  paper  label,  gilt  top,  uncut  edges,  $6.00;  half  calf, 
gilt,  marbled  edges,  $14.00;  half  Russia,  gilt  top,  $18.00. 
Hood's  verse,  whether  serious  or  comic — whether  serene  like  a  cloudless 
autumn  evening  or  sparkling  with  puns  like  a  frosty  January  midnight 
with  stars — was  ever  pregnant  with  materials  for  the  thought.    Like  every 
author  distinguished  for  true  comic  humor,  there  was  a  deep  vein  of  niflau- 
choly  pathos  running  through  his  mirth,  and  even  when  his  sun  shone 
brightly  its  light  seemed  often  reflected  as  if  only  over  the  rim  of  a  cloud. 

Well  may  we  say,  in  the  words  of  Tennyson,  "Would  he  could  have 
stayed  with  us."  for  never  could  it  be  more  truly  recorded  of  any  one — in 
the  words  of  Hamlet  characterizing  Yorick — that  "he  was  a  Allow  of  in- 
finite jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy."  D.  M.  MoiR. 

THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER  RENDERED  INTO  ENGLISH 
BLANK  VERSE.  By  Edward,  Earl  of  Derby.  From 
the  latest  London  edition,  with  all  the  author's  last  revisions 
and  corrections,  and  with  a  Biographical  Sketch  of  Lord 
Derby,  by  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L.  With  twelve 
steel  engravings  from  Flaxman's  celebrated  designs.  2  vols., 
12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  bev.  boards,  gilt  top,  $3.50 ;  half  calf,  gilt, 
marbled  edges,  $7.00 ;  half  Turkey  morocco,  gilt  top,  $7.00. 
The  same.    Popular  edition.    Two  vols,  in  one.    12mo.  Cloth, 

extra,  $1  50. 

"It  must  equally  be  considered  a  splendid  performance;  and  for  the  pres- 
ent we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  it  is  by  far  the  best  representation 
of  Homer's  Iliad  in  tho  English  language." — London  Times. 

"The  merits  of  Lord  Derby's  translation  may  be  summed  up  in  one  word, 
it  is  eminently  attractive;  it  is  instinct  with  life ;  it  may  be  read  with  fervent 
interest;  it  is  immeasurably  nearer  than  Pope  to  the  text  of  the  original.  . 
.  .  .  Lord  Derby  has  given  a  version  far  more  closely  allied  to  the  original, 
and  superior  to  any  that  has  yet  been  attempted  in  the  blank  verse  of  our 
language." — Ed'mburg  Review. 

THE  WORKS  OF  FLAVIUS  JOSEPHUS.  Comprising  the  Anti- 
quities of  the  Jews;  a  History  of  the  Jewish  Wars,  and  a  Life 
of  Flavius  Josephus,  written  by  himself.  Translated  from  the 
original  Greek,  by  William  Whiston,  A.M.  Together  with 
numerous  explanatory  Notes  and  seven  Dissertations  concern- 
ing Jesus  Christ,  John  the  Baptist,  James  the  Just,  God's  com- 
mand to  Abraham,  etc.,  with  an  Introductory  Essay  by  Rev. 
H.  Stebbing,  D.D.  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  plain 
edges,  $3.00;  cloth,  red,  black  and  gold,  gilt  edges,  $4.50;  sheep, 
marbled  edges,  $3.50;  Turkey  morocco,  gilt  edges,  $8.00. 
This  is  the  largest  type  one  volume  edition  published. 

THE  ANCIENT  HISTORY  OF  THE  EGYPTIANS,  CARTHA- 
GINIANS, ASSYRIANS,  BABYLONIANS,  MEDES  AND 
PERSIANS,  GRECIANS  AND  MACEDONIANS  Including 
a  History  of  the  Arts  and  Sciences  of  the  Ancients.  By 
Charles  Rollin.  With  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by  James 
Bell.    2  vols.,  royal  8vo.   Sheep,  marbled  edges,  per  set,  $o'.00. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


COOKERY  FROM  EXPERIENCE.  A  Practical  Guide  for  House- 
keepers in  the  Preparation  of  E very-day  Meals,  containing 
more  than  One  Thousand  Domestic  Recipes,  mostly  tested  by 
Personal  Experience,  with  Suggestions  for  Meals,  Lists  of 
Meats  and  Vegetables  in  Season,  etc.  By  Mrs.  Sara  T.  Paul. 
12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 
Interleaved  Edition.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.75. 

•  THE  COMPARATIVE  EDITION  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 

Both  Versions  in  One  Book. 

The  proof  readings  of  our  Comparative  Edition  have  been  gone 
over  by  so  many  competent  proof  readers^,  that  we  believe  the  text 
is  absolutely  correct. 

Large  12mo.,  700  pp.  Cloth,  extra,  plain  edges,  $1.50;  cloth, 
extra,  bevelled  boards  and  carmine  edges,  $1.75 ;  imitation  panelled 
calf,  yellow  edges,  $2.00;  arabesque,  gilt  edges,  $2.50;  French  mo- 
rocco, limp,  gilt  edges,  $4.00 ;  Turkey  morocco,  limp,  gilt  edges, 
$6.00. 

The  Comparative  New  Testament  has  been  published  by  Porter  &  Coates. 
In  parallel  columns  on  each  page  are  given  the  old  and  new  versions  of  the 
Testament,  divided  also  as  far  as  practicable  into  comparative  verses,  so  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  for  the  slightest  new  word  to  escape  the  notice  of 
either  the  ordinary  reader  or  the  analytical  student.  It  is  decidedly  the 
best  edition  yet  published  of  the  most  interest-exciting  literary  production 
of  the  day.  No  more  convenient  form  for  comparison  could  be  devised 
either  for  economizing  time  or  labor.  Another  feature  is  the  foot-notes, 
and  there  is  also  given  in  an  appendix  the  various  words  and  expressions 
preferred  by  the  American  members  of  the  Kevising  Commission.  The 
work  is  handsomely  printed  on  excellent  paper  with  clear,  legible  type.  It 
contains  nearly  700  pages. 

THE  COUNT  OF  MONTE  CRISTO.  By  Alexandre  Dumas. 
Complete  in  one  volume,  with  two  illustrations  by  George  G. 
White.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold;  $1.25. 

THE  THREE  GUARDSMEN.    By  Alexandre  Dumas.  Com- 
plete in  one  volume,  with  two  illustrations  by  George  G. 
White.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 
There  is  a  magic  influence  in  his  pen,  a  magnetic  attraction  in  his  descrip- 
tions, a  fertility  in  his  literary  resources  which  are  characteristic  of  Dumas 
alone,  and  the  seal  of  the  master  of  light  literature  is  set  upon  all  his  works. 
Even  whrn  not  strictly  historical,  his  romances  give  an  insight  into  t he 
habits  and  modes  of  thought  and  action  of  the  people  of  the  time  described, 
which  are  not  offered  in  any  other  author's  productions. 

THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  By  Sir  Edward  Bulwer 
Lytton,  Bart.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and 
gold,  $1.00.    Alta  edition,  one  illustration,  75  cts. 

JANE  EYRE.  By  Charlotte  Bronte  (Currer  Bell).  New  Li- 
brary Edition.  With  five  illustrations  by  E.  M.  Wimperis. 
12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.00. 

SHIRLEY.  By  Charlotte  Bronte  (Currer  Bell).  New  Library 
Edition.  With  five  illustrations  by  E.  M.  Wimperis.  12mo. 
Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.00. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


9 


VILLETTE.  By  Charlotte  Bronte  (Currer  Bell).  New  Library- 
Edition.  With  five  illustrations  by  E.  M.  Wimperis.  12nio. 
Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.00. 

THE  PROFESSOR,  EMMA  and  POEMS.  By  Charlotte  Bronte 
(Currer  Bell).  New  Library  Edition.  With  five  illustrations 
by  E.  M.  Wimperis.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.00. 

Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  per  set,  $4.00;  red  cloth,  paper 
label,  gilt  top,  uncut  edges,  per  set,  $5.00 ;  half  calf,  gilt,  per  set, 
$12.00.  The  four  volumes  forming  the  complete  works  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte  (Currer  Bell). 

The  wondrous  power  of  Currer  Bell's  stories  consists  in  their  fiery  insight 
into  the  human  heart,  their  merciless  dissection  of  passion,  and  their  stern 
analysis  of  character  and  motive.  The  style  of  these  productions  possesses 
incredible  force,  sometimes  almost  grim  in  its  bare  severity,  then  relapsing 
into  passages  of  melting  pathos— always  direct,  natural,  and  effective  in  its 
unpretending  strength.  They  exhibit  the  identity  which  always  belongs  to 
works  of  genius  by  the  same  author,  though  without  the  slightest  approach 
to  monotony.  The  characters  portrayed  by  Currer  Bell  all  have  a  strongly 
marked  individuality.  Once  brought  before  the  imagination,  they  haunt 
tne  memory  like  a  strange  dream.  The  sinewy,  muscular  strength  of  her 
writings  guarantees  their  permanent  duration,  and  thus  far  they  have  lost 
nothing  of  their  intensity  of  interest  since  the  period  of  their  composition. 

CAPTAIN  JACK  THE  SCOUT;  or,  The  Indian  Wars  about  Old 
Fort  Duquesne.     An  Historical  Novel,  with  copious  notes. 
By  Charles  McKnight.    Illustrated  with  eight  engravings. 
12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 
A  work  of  such  rare  merit  and  thrilling  interest  as  to  have  been  repub- 
lished both  in  England  and  Germany.   This  genuine  American  historical 
work  has  been  received  with  extraordinary  popular  favor,  and  has  "won 
golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people"  for  its  freshness,  its  forest  life,  and 
its  fidelity  to  truth.    In  many  instances  it  even  corrects  History  and  uses 
the  drapery  of  fiction  simply  to  enliven  and  illustrate  the  fact, 
_ It  is  a  universal  favorite  with  bot  h  sexes,  and  with  all  ages  and  condi- 
tions, and  is  not  only  proving  a  marked  and  notable  success  in  this  country, 
but  has  been  eagerly  taken  up  abroad  and  republished  in  London,  England, 
and  issued  in  two  volumes  in  the  far-famed  "Tauchnetz  Edition  "  of  Leipsic, 
Germany. 

ORANGE  BLOSSOMS,  FRESH  AND  FADED.  By  T.  S.  Arthur. 
Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 
"Orange  Blossoms"  contains  a  number  of  short  stories  of  society.  Like 
all  of  Mr.  Arthur's  works,  it  has  a  special  moral  purpose,  and  is  especially 
addressed  to  the  young  who  have  just  entered  the  marital  experience,  whom 
it  pleasantly  warns  against  those  social  and  moral  pitfalls  into  which  they 
may  almost  innocently  plunge. 

THE  BAR  ROOMS  AT  BRANTLEY;  or,  The  Great  Hotel  Spec- 
ulation. By  T.  S.  Arthur.  Illustrated.  12m o.  Cloth,  extra, 
black  and  gold,  $1.50. 

"  One  of  the  best  temperance  stories  recently  issued."— N.  Y.  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

"Although  it  is  in  the  form  of  a  novel,  its  truthful  delineation  of  charac- 
ters is  such  that  in  every  village  in  the  land  you  meet  the  broken  manhood 
it  pictures  upon  the  streets,  and  look  upon  sad,  tear-dimmed  eyes  ofwrnnea 
and  children.  The  characters  are  not  overdrawn,  bwt  are  as  truthful  as  an 
artist's  pencil  could  make  them."— Inter-Ocean,  Chicago. 


10 


PORTER  &  COATES*  PUBLICATIONS. 


EMMA.  By  Jane  Austen.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra 
$1.25.  ' 

MANSFIELD  PARK.  By  Jane  Austen.  Illustrated.  12mo 
Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE;  and  Northanger  Abbev.  By  Jane 
Austen.   Illustrated.   12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY;  and  Persuasion.  By  Jane  Austen. 
Illustrated.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

The  four  volumes,  forming  the  complete  works  of  Jane  Austen, 
in  a  neat  box :  Cloth,  extra,  per  set,  $5.00 ;  red  cloth,  paper  label, 
gilt  top,  uncut  edges,  $5.00 ;  half  calf,  gilt,  per  set,  $12.00. 

"Jane  Austen,  a  woman  of  whom  England  is  justly  proud.  In  her  novels 
she  has  given  us  a  multitude  of  characters,  all,  in  a  certaiu  sense,  common- 
place, all  such  as  we  meet  everyday.  Yet  they  are  all  as  perfectly  discrimi- 
nated from  each  other  as  if  they  were  the  most  eccentric  of  human  beings. 
....  And  almost  all  this  is  done  by  touches  so  delicate  that  they  elude 
analysis,  that  they  defy  the  powers  of  description,  and  that  we  know  them 
to  exist  only  by  the  general  effect  to  which  they  have  contributed."— Ma- 
caulay's  Essays. 

ART  AT  HOME.  Containing  in  one  volume  House  Decoration, 
by  Ehoda  and  Agnes  Garrett;  Plea  for  Art  in  the  House, 
by  W.  J.  Loftie  ;  Music,  by  John  Hullah  ;  and  Dress,  by 
Mrs.  Oliphant.   12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 

TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS  AT  RUGBY.    By  Thomas 
Hughes.    New  Edition,  large  clear  type.    With  36  illustra- 
tions after  Caldecott  and  others.    12mo.,  400  pp.    Cloth,  extra, 
black  and  gold,  $1.25;  half  calf,  gilt,  $2.75. 
Alta  Edition.    One  illustration,  75  cents. 

"It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  amount  of  good  which  may  be  done  by 
'Tom  Brown's  School  Days.'  It  gives,  in  the  main,  a  most  faithful  and 
interesting  picture  of  our  public  schools,  the  most  English  institutions  of 
England,  and  which  educate  the  best  and  most  powerful  elements  in  our 
upper  classes.  But  it  is  more  than  this;  it  is  an  attempt,  a  very  noble  and 
successful  attempt,  to  Christianize  the  society  of  our  youth,  through  the 
only  practicable  channel — hearty  and  brotherly  sympathy  with  their  feel- 
ings; a  book,  in  short,  which  a  father  might  well  wish  to  see  in  the  hands 
of  his  son." — London  Times. 

TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  By  Thomas  Hughes.  Illustrated. 
12mo.   Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50 ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.00. 

"Fairlv  entitled  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  an  English  classic.  Plot,  style 
and  truthfulness  are  of  the  soundest  British  character.  Racy,  idiomatic, 
mirror-like,  always  interesting,  suggesting  thought  on  the  knottiest  social 
and  religious  questions,  now  deeply  moving  by  its  unconscious  pathos,  and 
anon  inspiring  uproarious  laughter,  it  is  a  work  the  world  will  not  willingly 
let  die." — N.  Y.  Christian  Advocate. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


11 


SENSIBLE  ETIQUETTE  OF  THE  BEST  SOCIETY.  By'  Mrs. 
H.  O.  Ward.  Customs,  manners,  morals,  and  home  culture, 
with  suggestions  how  to  word  notes  and  letters  of  invitations, 
acceptances,  and  regrets,  and  general  instructions  as  to  calls, 
rules  for  watering  places,  lunches,  kettle  drums,  dinners,  re- 
ceptions, weddings,  parties,  dress,  toilet  and  manners,  saluta- 
tions, introductions,  social  reforms,  etc.,  etc.  Bound  in  clot11., 
with  gilt  edge,  and  sent  by  mail,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of 
$2.00. 

LADIES'  AND  GENTLEMEN'S  ETIQUETTE:  A  Complete 
Manual  of  the  Manners  and  Dress  of  American  Society.  Con- 
taining forms  of  Letters,  Invitations,  Acceptances,  and  Regrets. 
With  a  copious  index.  By  E.  B.  Duffey.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 

"It  is  peculiarly  an  American  book,  especially  adapted  to  our  people,  and 
its  greatest  beauty  is  found  in  the  fact  that  in  every  line  and  precept  it  iu- 
culcates  the  principles  of  true  politeness,  instead  of  those  formal  rules  that 
serve  only  to  gild  the  surface  without  affecting  the  substance.  It  is  admir- 
ably written,  the  style  being  clear,  terse,  and  forcible." — St.  Louis  Times. 

THE  UNDERGROUND  CITY;  or,  The  Child  of  the  Cavern. 
By  Jules  Verne.  Translated  from  the  French  by  W.  H. 
Kingston.  With  43  illustrations.  Standard  Edition.  12mo. 
Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 

AROUND  THE  WORLD  IN  EIGHTY  DAYS.  By  Jules  Verne. 
Translated  by  Geo.  M.  Towle.  With  12  full-page  illustrations. 
12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

AT  THE  NORTH  POLE ;  or,  The  Voyages  and  Adventures  of 
Captain  Hatteras.  By  Jules  Verne.  With  130  illustrations 
by  Riou.  Standard  Edition.  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and 
gold,  $1.25. 

THE  DESERT  OF  ICE ;  or,  The  Further  Adventures  of  Captain 
Hatteras.  By  Jules  Verne.  With  126  illustrations  by  Riou. 
Standard  Edition.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES  UNDER  THE  SEAS;  or, 
The  Marvellous  and  Exciting  Adventures  of  Pierre  Aronnax, 
Conseil  his  servant,  and  Ned  Land,  a  Canadian  Harpooner.  By 
Jules  Verne.  Standard  Edition.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  CHANCELLOR,  Diary  of  J.  R.  Kazallon, 
Passenger,  and  Martin  Paz.    By  Jules  Verne.  Translated 
from  the  French  by  Ellen  Frewee.    With  10  illustrations. 
Standard  Edition.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 
Jules  Verne  is  so  well  known  that  the  mere  announcement  of  anything 
from  his  pen  is  Mifficient  to  create  a  demand  for  it.    One  of  his  chief  merits 
is  the  wonderful  art  with  which  he  lays  under  contribution  every  branch  of 
science  and  natural  history,  while  he  vividly  describes  with  minute  exact- 
ness all  parts  of  the  world  and  its  inhabitants. 


12 


PORTER  &  COATES  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  INGOLDSBY  LEGENDS;  or.  Mirth  and  Marvels.  By 
Eichard  Harris  Bakham  (Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.).  New 
edition,  printed  from  entirely  new  stereotype  plates.  Illus- 
trated. 12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50;  half  calf, 
gilt,  marbled  edges,  $3.00. 

"Of  his  poetical  powers  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that,  for  originality  of 
design  and  diction,  for  grand  illustration  and  musical  verse,  tiny  are  not 
surpassed  in  the  English  language.  The  Witches'  Frolic  is  second  only  to 
Tam  O'Shanter.  But  why  recapitulate  the  tii  ies  of  either  prose  or  verse — 
since  they  have  been  confessed  by  every  judgment  to  be  singularly  rich  in 
classic  allusion  and  modern  illustration.  From  the  days  of  Hudibras  to  our 
time  the  drollery  invested  in  rhymes  has  never  been  so  amply  or  ielieitousiy 
exemplified." — Bentley's  Miscellany. 

TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR.    By  Samuel  C.  Warren,  author  of 
"The  Diary  of  a  London  Physician."    Anew  edition,  care- 
fully revised,  with  three  illustrations  by  George  G.  White. 
12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1  50. 
"M>  Warren  h  is  taken  a  lasting  place  among  the  imaginative  writers  of 
this  period  of  English  history.    He  possesses,  in  a  remarkable  manner,  the 
tenderness  of  heart  and  vividness  of  feeling,  as  well  as  powers  of  description, 
which  are  essential  to  the  delineation  of  the  pathetic,  and  whieh,  when 
existing  in  the  degree  in  which  he  enjoys  them,  fill  his  pages  with  scenes 
which  can  never  be  forgotten." — Sir  Archibald  Alison. 

THOMPSON'S  POLITICAL  ECONOMY;  With  Especial  Refer- 
ence to  the  Industrial  History  of  Nations.  By  Prof.  R.  E. 
Thompson,  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  $1.50. 

This  book  possesses  an  especial  interest  at  the  present  moment.  The 
questions  of  Free  Trade  and  Protection  are  before  the  country  more  directly 
t  han  at  any  earlier  period  of  our  history.  As  a  rule  the  works  and  text- 
books used  in  our  American  colleges  are  either  of  English  origin  or  teaeh 
Doctrines  of  a  political  economy  which,  as  Walter  Ragehot  says,  was  made 
for  England.  Prof.  Tuompson  belongs  to  the  Nationalist  School  ot  Econo- 
mists, to  which  Alexander  Hamilton,  Tench  Coxe,  Henry  Clay,  Matthew 
Carey,  and  his  greater  son,  Henry  C.  Carey,  Stepheu  Colwell,  and  James 
Abram  Garfield  were  adherents.  He  believes  in  that  policy  of  Protection 
to  American  industry  which  has  had  the  sanction  of  every  great  American 
statesman,  not  excepting  Thomas  Jeiferson  and  John  C.  Calhoun.  He  makes 
his  appeal  to  history  in  defence  of  that  policy,  showing  that  wherever  a 
weaker  or  less  advanced  country  has  practiced  Ere3  Trade  with  one  m*»r« 
powerful  or  richer,  the  former  has  lost  its  industries  as  well  as  its  money, 
and  has  become  economically  dependent  on  the  latter.  Those  who  wish 
to  learn  what  is  the  real  source  of  Irish  poverty  and  discontent  will  find  it 
here  stated  fully. 

The  method  of  the  book  is  historical.  It  is  therefore  no  series  of  dry  and 
abstract  reasonings,  such  as  repel  readers  from  books  of  this  cla-s.  The 
writer  docs  not  ride  the  a  priori  nag,  and  say  "  this  must  be  so,"  and  "  that 
must  be  conceded."  He  shows  what  has  been  true,  and  seeks  to  elicit  the 
laws  of  the  science  from  the  experience  of  the  world.  The  book  overflows 
with  facts  told  in  an  interesting  manner. 

THE  ENGLISH  PEOPLE  IN  ITS  THREE  HOMES,  and  the 
Practical  Bearings  of  general  European  History.  By  Edward 
A.  Freeman,  LL.D.,  Author  of  the  "Norman  Conquest  of 
England."    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  $1.75. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


18 


HANDY  ANDY.  A  Tale  of  Irish  Life.  By  Samuel  Lover.  New 
Library  Edition,  with  two  original  illustrations  by  George  G. 
White.    12 mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 
"Decidedly  the  best  story  of  the  day,  full  of  frolic,  genuine  fun,  and  ex- 
quisite touches  of  Irish  humor." — Dublin  Monitor. 

CHARLES  O'MALLEY,  The  Irish  Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever. 
New  Library  Edition,  with  tw^o  original  illustrations  by  F.  O. 
C.  Darley.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

HARRY  LORREQUER.  By  Charles  Lever.  New  Library 
Edition,  with  two  original  illustrations  by  Geo.  G.  White. 
12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

"The  intense  spirit  and  frolic  of  the  author's  sketches  have  made  him 
one  of  the  most  successful  writers  of  the  day." — London  Literary  Gazette. 

"The  author  is  pre-eminent  for  his  mirth-moving  powers,  for  his  acute 
sense  of  the  ridiculous,  for  the  breadth  of  his  humor,  and  his  powers  of 
dramatic  writing  which  render  his  boldest  conceptions  with  the  happiest 
facility." — London  Athenceum. 

"We  hardly  know  how  to  convey  an  adequate  notion  of  the  exuberant 
whim  and  drollery  by  which  this  writer  is  characterized.  His  works  are  a 
perpetual  feast  of  gayety."-  John  Bull,  London. 

POPULAR  NATURAL  HISTORY.    By  the  Rev.  J.  G.  Wood, 
M.A.    From  entirely  new  electrotype  plates,  with  five  hun- 
dred illustrations  by  eminent  artists.     Crown  8vo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.75. 
Mr.  Wood  is  an  amusing,  instructive,  and  sensible  writer — always  doing 

good  work  in  a  good  way — and  his  work  on  Natural  History  is  without 

doubt  his  masterpiece. 

THE  ODES  OF  HORACE.    Translated  into  English  verse,  with 
Life  and  Notes,  by  Theodore  Martin.    With  a  fine  portrait 
of  Horace.    16mo.    Cloth,  extra,  $1.00. 
Mr.  Martin's  translation  has  been  commended  as  preserving — more  than 

any  other — the  spirit  and  grace  of  the  original.    It  is  the  most  successful 

attempt  ever  made  to  render  into  English  the  inimitable  odes  of  Horace. 

The  memoir  prefixed  to  the  volume  is  a  most  chaiming  piece  of  biography. 

GREEK  MYTHOLOGY  SYSTEMATIZED.  With  complete  Tables 
based  on  Hcsiod's  Theogony ;  Tables  showing  the  relation  of 
Greek  Mythology  and  History,  arranged  from  Grote's  History 
of  Greece;  and  Gladstone's  Homeric  Tables.  With  a  full 
Index.  By  S.  A.  Scull.  Profusely  illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth, 
black  and  gold,  $1.50. 
"A  book  which  will  prove  very  useful  to  the  student  and  man  of  letters, 
and  of  incalculable  benefit  as  a  hand-book." — Republic,  Washington. 

"A  real  want  is  supplied  by  this  book,  which  is,  in  fact,  a  cyclopaedia  of 
Greek  Mythology,  so  far  as  that  is  possible  in  a  single  volume  of  reasonable 
size  and  moderate  cost." — Evening  Mail,  New  York. 

"This  text-book  on  Mythology  presents  the  subject  in  a  more  practical 
and  ruore  attractive  style  than  any  other  work  on  the  subject  with  which 
we  are  familiar,  and  we  feel  assured  that  it  will  at  once  take  a  leadiug  posi- 
tion among  books  of  its  class." — The  Teacher,  Philadelphia. 


14 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  IMITATION  OF  CHRIST.  By  Thomas  a  Kempis.  New 
and  best  edition,  from  entirely  new  electrotype  plates,  single 
column,  large,  clear  type.  18mo. 

Plain  Edition,  round  corners.  Cloth,  extra,  red  edges,  50  cents; 
French  morocco,  gilt  cross,  75  cents ;  limp  Russia,  inlaid  cross,  red 
under  gold  edges,  $2.00. 

Red  Line  Edition,  round  corners.  Cloth,  black  and  gold,  red 
edges,  75  cents;  cloth,  black  and  gold,  gilt  edges,  $1.00;  French 
morocco,  red  under  gold  edges,  $1.50;  limp  Russia,  inlaid  cross,  red 
under  gold  edges,  $2.50;  limp  Russia,  solid  gilt  edges,  box  circuit, 
$3.00 ;  limp  calf,  red  under  gold  edges,  $2.50 ;  limp  calf,  solid  gilt 
edges,  box  circuit,  $3.00. 

THE  WORDS  AND  MIND  OF  JESUS  AND  FAITHFUL  PROM- 
ISER.    By  Rev.  J.  R.  Macduff,  D.D.,  author  of  "  Morning  and 
Night  Watches."    New  and  best  edition,  from  entirely  new 
electrotype  plates,  single  column,  large,  clear  type.  18mo. 
Plain  Edition,  round  corners.    Cloth,  extra,  red  edges,  50  cents ; 

French  morocco,  gilt  cross,  75  cents ;  limp  Russia,  inlaid  cross,  red 

under  gold  edges,  $2.00. 

Red  Line  Edition,  round  corners.    Cloth,  black  and  gold,  red 

edges,  75  cents;  cloth,  black  and  gold,  gilt  edges,  $1.00;  limp  calf 

or  Russia,  red  under  gold  edges,  $2.50. 

A  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  BIBLE.  Comprising  its  Antiquities, 
Biography,  Geography,  Natural  History,  and  Literature. 
Edited  .by  William  Smith,  LL.D.  Revised  and  adapted  to 
the  present  use  of  Sunday-school  Teachers  and  Bible  Students 
by  Rev.  F.  N.  and  M.  A.  Peloubet.  With  eight  colored  maps 
and  over  350  engravings  on  wood.  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  black 
and  gold,  $2.00;  sheep,  marbled  edges,  $3.00;  half  morocco, 
gilt  top,  $3.50. 

"No  similar  work  in  our  own  or  in  any  other  language  is  for  a  moment  to 
be  compared  with  Dr.  Smith's  Dictionary  of  the  Bible.  The  Christian  and 
the  scholar  have  a  treasure-house  on  every  subject  connected  with  the 
Bible,  full  to  overflowing,  and  minute  even  to  the  telling  of  mint  and  cum- 
min."— London  Quarterly  Review. 

COMPREHENSIVE  BIOGRAPHICAL  DICTIONARY.  Embra- 
cing accounts  of  the  most  eminent  persons  of  all  ages,  nations, 
and  professions.  By  E.  A.  Thomas.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  extra, 
gilt  top,  $2.50;  sheep,  marbled  edges,  $3.00;  half  morocco,  gilt 
top,  $3.50 ;  half  Russia,  gilt  top,  $4.50. 
The  aim  of  the  publishers  in  issuing  this  work  is  to  present  in  convenient 
size  and  at  moderate  price  a  comprehensive  dictionary  of  biography,  em- 
bracing accounts  of  the  most  eminent  personages  in  all  ages,  countries,  and 
professions. 

During  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  so  many  important  events  have  been 
enacted,  such  as  the  Civil  War  in  America  and  the  Franco-Prussian  War  of 
1870,  and  such  great  advances  have  been  made  in  the  line  of  invention  and 
scientific  investigation,  that  within  that  period  many  persons  have  risen  by 
superior  merit  to  conspicuous  positions;  and  as  the  plan  of  this  work  em- 
braces accounts  of  the  living  as  well  as  of  the  dead,  many  names  are  in- 
cluded that  are  not  to  be  found  in  other  dictionaries  of  biography. 


PORTER  &  COATES*  PUBLICATIONS. 


15 


THE  HORSE  IN  THE  STABLE  AND  THE  FIELD.    His  Man- 
agement in  Health  and  Disease.    By  J.  H.  Walsh,  F.R.C.S. 
(Stonehenge.)     From  the  last  London  edition.  Illustrated 
with  over  80  engravings,  and  full-page  engravings  from  photo- 
graphs. 12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  bev.  boards,  black  and  gold,  $2.00. 
"It  sustains  its  claim  to  be  the  only  work  which  has  brought  together  in 
A  single  volume,  and  in  clear,  concise,  and  comprehensive  language,  adequate 
information  on  the  various  subjects  on  which  it  treats." — Harper's  Magazine. 

"This  is  the  best  English  book  on  the  horse,  revised  and  improved  by 
competent  persons  for  publication  in  this  country.  It  is  the  most  complete 
work  on  the  subject,  probably,  in  the  English  language,  and  that,  of  course, 
means  the  most  complete  in  existence.  Everything  relating  to  a  horse  that 
history,  science,  observation,  or  practical  knowledge  can  furnish,  has  a  place 
in  it." —  Worcester  Daily  Spy. 

THE  HORSE.  By  William  Youatt,  together  with  a  General 
History  of  the  Horse;  a  dissertation  on  the  American  Trotting 
Horse,  and  an  essay  on  the  Ass  and  the  Mule.  By  J.  S.  Skin- 
ner. With  a  beautiful  engraving  on  steel  of  the  famous 
"  West  Australian,"  and  58  illustrations  on  wood.  8vo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.75. 

BOOK  OF  THE  FARM.  The  Handy-book  of  Husbandry.  Con- 
taining Practical  Information  in  Regard  to  Buying  or  Leasing 
a  Farm ;  Fences  and  Farm  Buildings,  Farming  Implements, 
Drainage,  Plowing,  Subsoiling,  Manuring,  Rotation  of  Crops, 
Care  and  Medical  Treatment  of  the  Cattle,  Sheep,  and  Poul- 
try ;  Management  of  the  Dairy ;  Useful  Tables,  etc.  By 
George  E.  Waring,  Jr.,  of  Ogden  Farm,  author  of  "  Drain- 
ing for  Profit  and  for  Health,"  etc.  New  edition,  thoroughly 
revised  by  the  author.  With  100  illustrations.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $2.00. 

AMERICAN  ORNITHOLOGY;  or,  The  Natural  History  of  the 
Birds  of  the  United  States.    By  Alexander  Wilson  and 
Charles  Lucien  Bonaparte.    Popular  Edition,  complete  in 
one  volume  imperial  octavo.    1200  pages  and  nearly  400  illus- 
trations of  birds.  Formerly  published  at  $100 ;  now  published 
at  the  low  price:  Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $7.50;  half 
morocco,  marbled  edges,  $12.50. 
This  large  and  handsome  volume,  printed  in  a  superior  manner  on  good 
paper  from  the  original  stereotype  plates  of  the  larger  edition,  contains  the 
Life  of  Wilson,  occupying  132  pages;  a  full  Catalogue  of  North  American 
Birds,  furnished  by  Professor  Spencer  F.  Baird,  of  the  Smithsonian  Institu- 
tion; Complete  Index,  with  the  names  of  over  900  birds  described  in  the 
text,  and  is  illustrated  with  nearly  400  figures  of  birds  engraved  on  wood. 
It  is  exactly  the  same  size  as  the  larger  edition,  with  the  exception  that  the 
engravings  are  reduced  in  size  and  are  not  colored,  reproducing  every  line 
of  the  original  edition.    It  is  one  of  the  best  books  of  permanent  value 
(strictly  an  American  book)  ever  published,  noted  for  its  beauty  of  diction 
and  power  of  description,  pre-eminent  as  the  ablest  work  on  Ornithology, 
and  now  published  at  a  moderate  price,  that  places  it  within  the  reach  of 
all.   Every  lover  of  birds,  every  school,  public  or  family  library  should 
have  this  book.   We  know  of  no  other  way  in  which  so  much  pleasure,  so 
much  information,  and  so  much  usefulness  can  be  had  for  the  price. 


16  PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


AMERICAN  CHESS  PLAYER'S  HAND-BOOK.  Teaching  the 
Rudiments  of  the  Game,  and  giving  au  Analysis  of  all  the 
recognized  openings.  Exemplified  by  appropriate  Games  act- 
ually played  by  Paul  Morphy,  Harrwitz,  Anderssen,  Staunton, 
Paulsen,  Montgomery,  Meek,  and  others.  From  the  works  of 
Staunton  and  others.    Illustrated.  16mo.  Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

AMERICAN  GARDENER'S  ASSISTANT.  Containing  complete 
Practical  Directions  for  the  Cultivation  of  Vegetables,  Flowers, 
Fruit  Trees,  and  Grape  Vines.  By  Thomas  Bridgman.  New 
edition,  revised  and  enlarged,  by  S.  Edwards  Todd.  With 
70  illustrations.    12mo.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $2.00. 

DISEASES  OF  THE  HORSE,  AND  HOW  TO  TREAT  THEM. 
A  concise  Manual  of  Special  Pathology,  for  the  use  of  Horse- 
men, Farmers,  Stock  Raisers,  and  Students  in  Agricultural 
Colleges.  By  Robert  Chawner.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.25. 

JERSEY,  ALDERNEY,  AND  GUERNSEY  COWS.  Their  His- 
tory, Nature,  and  Management.  Edited  from  the  writings  of 
Edward  P.  Fowler,  George  E.  Waring,  Jr.,  Charles  L.  Sharp- 
less,  Prof.  John  Gamgee,  C.  P.  Le  Cornu,  Col.  Le  Couteur, 
Prof.  Magne,  Fr.  Guenon,  Dr.  Twaddell,  and  others,  by 
Willis  P.  Hazard.  8vo.  Illustrated  with  about  30  engrav- 
ings, diagrams,  etc.    Cloth,  extra,  black  and  gold,  $1.50. 

THE  TROTTING  HORSE  OF  AMERICA.  How  to  Train  and 
Drive  him,  with  Reminiscences  of  the  Trotting  Turf.  By 
Hiram  Woodruff.  Edited  by  Charles  J.  Foster.  Includ- 
ing an  Introductory  Notice  by  George  Wilkes,  and  a  Bio- 
graphical Sketch  by  the  Editor.  20th  edition,  revised  and 
brought  down  to  1878,  and  containing  a  full  account  of  the 
famous  "  Rarus."  With  a  steel  portrait  of  the  author,  and  six 
engravings  on  wood  of  celebrated  trotters.  12mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  black  and  gold,  $2.50. 

PORTER  &  COATES'  INTEREST  TABLES.  Containing  accurate 
calculations  of  interest  at  *,  1,  2,  3,  3i,  4,  4£,  5,  6,  7,  8  and  10  per 
cent,  per  annum,  on  all  sums  from  $1.00  to  $10,000,  and  from 
one  day  to  six  years.  Also  some  very  valuable  tables,  calcu- 
lated by  John  E.  Coffin.    8vo.    Cloth,  extra,  $1.00. 

READY  RECKONER  (The  Improved,)  FORM  AND  LOGBOOK. 
The  Trader's,  Farmer's  and  Merchant's  useful  assistant.  Con- 
taining Tables  of  Values,  Wages,  Interest,  Scantling,  Board, 
Plank  and  Log  Measurements,  Business  Forms,  etc.  ISmo. 
Boards,  cloth  back,  illustrated  cover,  25  cents. 


